By Moonlight
by inkkit
Summary: As the Wizarding World continues to be plagued by a brutal war, Hermione, the last of the Golden Trio, remains a steadfast symbol of hope. When Voldemort makes her his primary target, she goes into hiding. And who is there to protect her but a sardonic and callous werewolf. *Relatively fast-paced story; lots of action and interactions* mature themes/content; Hermione/Fenrir.
1. By Night

**Hello readers :) Bonjour à tous :) So, here's a new story idea I had. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!**

**Also, this is my one and only disclaimer, it applies to all chapter from here on out: I do not own Harry Potter, I merely own my own plot idea.**

1

With a grateful sigh, Hermione kicked of her heels, hiding her now naked feet beneath the silver tablecloth at the table she'd been appointed to. She'd tried to smile for as long as she could manage, but she was a fighter, not an actor, and after a few hours of feigned joyful dancing and mingling, evidence of Hermione's weariness had begun to manifest on her features.

The chair beside her was pulled out and a slight figure slid in beside her. In her peripherals, Hermione could detect the distinct moonshine blond hair of Luna Lovegood. Luna had grown into a fine looking young woman, albeit retaining her eccentricities. She and Neville had gotten engaged some six months ago, and although the Wizarding War was still full-fledged, Hermione couldn't help but admire their devotion to one another and courage to marry during a time of such devastating strife.

"You look preoccupied," Luna said, simple and to the point as always.

Hermione shifted her hip so that she faced the beautiful blushing bride. She thoughtfully appraised her peer from Hogwarts. She looked absolutely breathtaking. Her hair had been swept up into a lovely loose bun with soft curls cascading down to delicately frame her heart-shaped face. Her dress, although atypical, representing Luna perfectly. The long, lace sleeves and corset fit suited the eccentric young woman, her full skirt flowed out around her with all the charm and beauty of a captivating waterfall.

Hermione's eyes misted over with a combination of contentment for the young couple and the happiness they were sure to have for the rest of their lives—she didn't dare think that anything would happen to either of them before the war's end—and a part of her tears were for herself and the grief and heartache she had gone through this past year alone.

The death of Ronald Weasley eleven months ago had been a blow. Everyone in the Wizarding World had paused, fearful and bemoaning the loss of a hero. The Weasley's had been devastated and Hermione had felt a part of her soul die along with him. She had always loved Ron, as a brother. He'd looked after her, defended her honour and had always known when she needed to be held in someone's arms at times when she needed silent reassurances.

Four months after his death at the hands of Antonin Dolohov, Hermione began to regain her spirit and strength. She had begun to believe that the Order would triumph, that there were still enough supporters out there who'd fight with them until the end. But then the unthinkable happened and the entire Wizarding World was sent once again into a soul-shattering tailspin. The great war hero, Harry Potter, the child destined to restore the Light, had perished at the hands of Voldemort himself. After a gallant battle, he'd been struck by the killing curse. Hermione had watched, powerless as the life had left his eyes black and unseeing to the world around him. Her world had ended, her hopes had been dashed. She was all that remained of the Golden Trio, the last memory of what had once been a promising outlook for the future.

But the Order, ever determined and devoted to ending the reign of Voldemort, persevered. Battles continued to be fought, good men and women died, families were destroyed, all in the name of the greater cause. Hermione couldn't help but feel discouraged, as though all their failed efforts and innocent lives lost had all been in vain. The darkness was spreading, its clawed fingers slowly chasing away all visible traces of the Light.

Hermione smiled tiredly at Luna. "I'm so sorry, Luna. I've just been tired lately. I…Well, you know me. I always think too much." She smiled weakly, looking apologetically at Luna, hating to spoil her special day.

Luna shrugged. "Don't fret, Hermione. Perhaps you should go home, get some rest."

Hermione shook her head. "No, no. It's your wedding!" she exclaimed. "I'm not going to spoil it. Now, if I'm not mistaken, that dashing young man over there looks to be in want of a dance." Hermione nodded in the direction of Neville Longbottom, who stood some twenty feet away near the crowded dance floor, a mischievous glint in his eye. Neville had filled out as he'd matured. He was now nearly six feet tall with perfectly coiffed brown hair, gentle chestnut eyes and an impressively lean physique. He'd outgrown the awkwardness of adolescence and looked all the bit the charmer.

With a knowing smile Luna rose, her dress sweeping around her legs. She squeezed Hermione's shoulder in a kindly reassuring way and went to join her new husband.

From where she sat, Hermione could see the gathering of cheerful faces. This was what the Wizarding community needed; a momentary return to normalcy and carefreeness. She watched peers and teachers from her years at Hogwarts, the Weasley's, Remus and Tonks, some people from the Ministry and others twirl about the dance floor, watched them and how they smiled and laughed with a carelessness she had not seen for too long a time.

Scooping up her shoes, Hermione stood. She quietly slipped out from the massive white tent and out into the fresh air of the field that surrounded them. They were just off the outskirts of the main city, far enough to be undetected, but close enough should the need arise to flee into a densely populated area. Shoes in hand, bare feet gliding across the dewy grass, Hermione began to walk. She wandered somewhat aimlessly for a time, content to be alone with her thoughts.

After what felt like a good hour, Hermione circled back to the tent. The moonlight lit a path for her as she softly treaded across the grassy field. It was quiet, she noticed, as the tent came into view. Too quiet. Trained to be prepared for the unexpected, Hermione silently whipped out her wand and continued to advance towards the wedding tent, eyes peeled and skimming the tall fields of wheat that stretched interminable around her.

When she reached the tent, she could hear the urgent tones of hushed voices. Cautiously, she pried open the tent's flap and was relieved to see a small collection of people from the wedding discussing something. The party had emptied out somehow in the past hour leaving only a dozen people now.

Neville, catching sight of her, called her name with visible relief. "Where have you been? We've been awful worried about you!"

Hermione was confused. "What's going on? I went for a walk. Where is everyone?"

Arthur Weasley stepped forward and Hermione noticed that he was the only Weasley left in the group. "We've been informed that the Death Eaters have caught wind of Luna and Neville's wedding. They're on their way now. We've been sending groups of people out through the wheat fields and into the city where they can safely apparate. This is the last group."

Hermione nodded, easily processing this information. Living through a war made you adaptable to the unanticipated. Among those present were Arthur Weasley, Neville, Dean Thomas and his girlfriend Parvati Patil, Shacklebolt, Remus, McGonagall, Oliver Wood, and Hestia Jones.

"All right then. Let's waste no more time."

Drawing their wands, the group of Wizards followed Arthur and Shacklebolt out of the tent. The moment they were outside, a bright yellow spell struck the tent and it burst into flames. The grouped ducked, throwing themselves into the field of wheat for cover.

"Run," Shacklebolt ordered. "You must run until you reach the street then apparate immediately to a safe zone. Go!" he cried as a hail storm of hexes and Unforgivables began to fly their way. There were angry shouts coming from behind them, getting close fast. Without wasting time, they bolted.

Heart thudding loudly in her chest, Hermione ran, her lean legs carrying her quickly and lightly through the maze of towering wheat. She'd lost sight of the other wizards, but she could hear them around her, tearing through the field. The coarse plants whipped at her face, tangling in her hair. She knew she was at the rear of the group because of the bunch, she was the shortest.

Spells were flying all around her. One hex grazed her hip, ripping the side of her dress open and leaving a gaping wound across her hipbone. She bit her lip as she staggered from the impact. Determined, she ran on, albeit at a slower pace. Breathing laboured, her hip flared in pain and her vision blurred. Glancing quickly downward she did a quick survey of the damage. The wound was large, and a frightening amount of blood was soaking through her dress, trailing down her thigh.

Sweat beaded her brow. Angry, she threw a particularly nasty hex over her shoulder and was satisfied to hear a pained grunt come from behind her.

A loud, sneering voice called out behind her. "We know you're there, traitor. You'll be sorry!" There was a cackling laugh and Hermione recognized Bellatrix Lestrange's voice. Another hex was fired and it barely missed the side of her head. Hermione took a sharp intake of breath.

Her hands were sweating now as the wound on her hip seared in agony. Stumbling, the witch fell to her knees, light-headed and nauseous. She could hear the Death Eaters thrashing through the field of wheat. She couldn't let them get to her, or any of the Order members.

Mustering the strength that she had left, Hermione raised her wand, waiting for the perfect opportunity. When she was certain the Death Eaters were a few feet away she waved her wand. Bright flames exploded before her. There was a shriek of agony and shouts of protest. The wall of fire spread, stretching for a mile at least. Its fiery expanse created an effective barrier to suppress the onslaught of the Death Eaters.

Satisfied, Hermione collapsed onto the ground, her cheek on the cold earth. She closed her eyes as her awareness evaded her. Her vision was a dark haze now. Indistinguishable blurs seemed to surround her. Then she heard her voice being called and strong arms encircled her body, lifting her and delivering her to safety

OOO

"You have failed me," the Dark Lord hissed. His ashen grey skin was drawn tight over his skull. Beady red eyes scanned the collection of Death Eaters before them. "I give you the simple task of ruining the happiness of a marriage between two blood traitors and you can't even manage to inflict a single wound?"

His gaze held cruel vehemence. The Death Eaters fell to their knees before him, bowing their heads and begging forgiveness.

"In our defense, My Lord," Bellatrix Lestrange spoke up, her sickly sweet voice echoing through the room. "We hit the Mudblood Granger with a nasty little hex. But bitch that she is set the field on fire. We couldn't very well be burned," she cooed, her black eyes wide with regret.

Voldemort sneered at her lame excuse. "Fools. You _have _ been burned, by a Mudblood, and Potter's whore at that."

Bellatrix withdrew as the Dark Lord's anger heightened. "Please. Do not be angry," she cooed in a poor attempt at comforting the Dark Lord.

"Silence!" he exclaimed. "I will not rest until I have wrung the life out of that Mudblood. My anger with you will not be quenched until the last of the Golden Trio lays dead and mangled at my feet. Now leave," he scowled, lowering himself into a black leather wingback armchair.

At the back of the dim chamber a tall, broad-shouldered figure dodged through the doorway. He strode without pause from the dampness of the foreboding manor located on the forested hillside. His long, powerful strides carried him further and further away from the Dark Lord's concealed residence until he was a safe distance away. Undetected, he apparated away.


	2. By Surprise

2

When Hermione's chocolate eyes opened, she was affronted by a blinding light. Groaning in protest, she her head turned away. "Blasted light," she mumbled incoherently, throwing a palm over her eyelids. Very slowly, Hermione began to remember the turn of events at Luna's wedding and the attack on their party by Death Eaters.

She sat up quickly. Too quickly, and immediately she felt her head go weightless. Before she could fall back on what she assumed was a bed, two hands caught her by her biceps. She opened her eyes to see two green pupils staring back at her with evident concern.

"How are you feeling?" said the voice.

Hermione blinked several times as her brain processed the identity of the man keeping her upright. Oliver Wood had always been a sensitive and caring guy. She hadn't spoken to him much over the years, but she knew he was a Wizarding World heartthrob, as per the words of Rita Skeeter. He was in fact rather good looking. He was tall and broad with the build of a Quidditch player. His teeth were perfectly straight and white and his hair was just long enough to run your fingers through it.

"Oliver."

He grinned, seemingly amused by her absentmindedness. "Aye?"

"Hey," she said, in an attempt to form a cohesive sentence. Her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. She sounded like some ill-mannered, illiterate ponce.

"Hey," he replied good-naturedly. "How's the hip?" he asked, nodding towards her blanket-covered legs.

"Oh. Right," she mumbled. Drawing back the sheets she found herself in a cotton nightgown. Oliver politely turned his head as she ran her hand up the side of her thigh pulling away the material to reveal a large stretch of gauze. She lowered her gown. "Healing. It's healing."

He turned back to her and smiled kindly. "That's good. We were worried when that fire went up and you still hadn't reached the street," he explained. "I went back to look for you. Found you bleeding out, I did," he said. His gaze darkened as he grew thoughtful.

Hermione gently held his hand, diverting his gaze back to her. "Thank you, Oliver. That was very brave—selfless."

She felt her heart warm when he smiled at her, green eyes twinkling kindly. "No. What you did was brave. You put a stop to those Death Eaters. It was brilliant spellmanship."

After Hermione had changed she went downstairs to the kitchen of the safe house, which Oliver had explained was located in Cornwall. The Order moved from safe house to safe house every couple of months to be sure they weren't uncovered. In the large, modern kitchen was a small assembly of people. Shacklebolt, McGonagall, Arthur and Molly, Remus and Tonks, Neville, Luna, Oliver, Ginny, Flitwick and Dean Thomas all lounged about. They looked at her expectantly as she entered the room.

"Hermione!" exclaimed Mrs. Weasley, waddling over to her and embracing the young woman. "It's such a relief to see you up and walking." She lovingly patted Hermione's cheek.

Hermione only smiled, still somewhat tired from yesterday's events.

Silence descended over the occupants of the small kitchen. Hermione, being masterfully observant knew there was something she didn't know. It was Remus who finally spoke up, alleviating the tension that had befallen the room.

"Hermione, following your injuries from yesterday, well, we're all concerned about your safety," he admitted.

Nodding, Hermione said, "As I'm sure you're concerned for the well-being of everyone involved in this war."

Remus looked guilty as he replied. "Well, yes, but you see…" His brow furrowed as he struggled to find the right words.

"Hermione. You're the last of the trio, you see? And the fact that you evaded capture yesterday has only fuelled You-Know-Who's rage. He's made you a primary target. Every single Death Eater will be looking for you now. He wants you dead and the reward is surely great," Arthur said.

His explanation was blunt, but Hermione was confused as to what this advisement was intended to justify. She had always been in danger, perhaps now more than ever since she was in fact the last connection to the Golden Trio. "What's bringing this on?" she asked cautiously.

Arthur leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms. "We need you to stay alive. Your survival gives people hope. You've become a symbol, Hermione. Witches and wizards hold onto to hope because they know that the legacy of the Golden Trio lives on through you."

Hermione nodded, overwhelmed. That knowledge was quite the feat to bear. The pressure of having so many people admire and look up to her as an idol of sorts, well, it was flattering, really.

"The point of my ramblings is that your safety must be guaranteed. We've decided to send you into hiding," he stated with finality.

Hermione's chest tightened, as pride overcame her. She quickly became indignant. "That's ridiculous!" She quickly scanned the faces of those present, but none of them dared meet her accusing gaze. They weren't going to stick up for her. "I can fight. I have to fight! I won't sit idle in some safe house and wait to hear news of my friends dying!"

Outrage coursed through her veins. Locking her up and preventing her from fighting was one of the greatest insults one could inflict on Hermione Granger. She was more than capable of taking care of herself. She was one of the most brilliant minds of her generation, if not _the most_!

"No. Absolutely not," she said with firmness.

Shacklebolt stepped forward cautiously. "This is non-negotiable, Ms. Granger. We've prepared your living quarters in a designated safe-house in the Forest Dean. Your possessions have been packed and delivered. It is done."

"That's not fair!" she cried, turning desperate. Her eyes met Oliver's. His face was overcast with an unreadable expression, but he, unlike the others present met her gaze full on.

"It's for the best, Hermione," he reasoned in a low voice.

"Oliver," she protested.

He shook his head. "Kingsley is right. You'll be safe."

She glared at Oliver, accusing him with her eyes. He looked solemn, but held her gaze. "I can't sit idle," she repeated. "I won't not fight in this war. Harry and Ron died fighting. If I'm to die, then it'll be as two of the greatest men who went before me did," she declared.

The collection of people fell into contemplative silence. Hermione's eyes burned with tears as she thought of Harry and Ron. She could see her tears reflected in the tormented expressions of Mrs. Weasley and Ginny, who had been Harry's one true love.

Someone grabbed her wrist, and Hermione turned to see Remus looking directly into her eyes. He squeezed her wrist gently, encouragingly. "No one would insult your talent, Hermione. But there are other ways to fight a war without being directly a part of the violence."

Hermione absently wiped away her tears with her free hand. "What are you saying?"

Remus smiled, pleased to see her giving in somewhat. "We've worked out that you'll be a Healer for us. Since Muggleborns, labelled blood-traitors, and refugee families are being turned down by the presence of Death Eaters in St. Mungos, we've begun to establish healing centres. We'd be honoured if you'd accept the task of brewing potions and serving as a Healer for the next while, at least until the hype over seeking you out and delivering you to Voldemort has died down a bit."

Hermione processed this in her mind. For one, she was extremely honoured to be offered a position as a Healer. Considering she hadn't been able to finish her Hogwarts schooling and was only twenty-one, she was humbled by the offer. Any chance to help those in need who were left injured or cast-out she'd take. On the other hand, she still longed to join the battles that would surely take place while she waited in the designated safe house for casualties. But she knew this was an opportunity she wouldn't get again. She knew the Order wouldn't let her fight and if she didn't take them up on their compromise then she'd be condemned to watch helplessly as her broad skills and knowledge wasted away from disuse.

"All right, then," she said finally. "I accept."

Several relieved sighs were expelled and Hermione was vaguely aware of congratulations and praises being sung to her. She only nodded, her mind was elsewhere, considering the choice she had made and evaluating how she might outsmart the Order and fight anyway.

FH

"Enter," Voldemort hissed.

Fenrir Greyback slid inside the dark room, ducking through the uncommonly low doorframe. The marble floors and walls left a permanent chill in the chamber. He found himself shivering slightly, despite his long sleeved shirt and knee-length trench coat.

"You summoned me, My Lord?" He bowed his large head, as was expected.

"Yes, come to me," he beckoned with a long, spindly grey finger.

Fenrir obeyed, his lips curling back in a subtle grimace as he beheld the leathery, beady-eyed face of the Dark Lord. The snake-like man looked mildly amused as Fenrir approached.

"Do I repel you, wolf?" he taunted, rising from his seat and circling Fenrir, his black cloak swishing about his ankles like shadows.

Fenrir met Voldemort's blood-red gaze. "No, My Lord. I merely cower in your greatness."

The snake-like man hissed out a laugh. "I can't imagine you cowering before any man, Fenrir Greyback, not even me."

Fenrir made no reply, he needn't have. The Dark Lord had a way of reading emotions, and Fenrir was making no attempt at hiding his repulsion. Voldemort paused his circling and returned to his seat.

"I've located the Order's latest safe house," he declared. "And I want you to take a pre-selected assembly of trustworthy Death Eaters. You are to then immediately charge the house. Do not return unless you bring news of a death with you, or at the very least, bring a prisoner. I haven't had the pleasure of torturing an Order member for some time now."

Fenrir nodded, his mind racing with news of these sudden orders. There was no evading the Dark Lord's command, not without revealing himself.

Fenrir bowed once more. "As you wish." Before he could leave the suffocating marble chamber, the hissing voice gave him pause.

"And Fenrir, I have knowledge that the Mudblood is there, now. In fact, she's most likely sleeping soundly in her bed." His evil eyes glinted like drawn blades. "I want her dead. More than any other Order member, she knows my weaknesses. She is a greater threat than even she knows."

Fenrir did not reply now, only nodded slightly and left the room. The entourage of Death Eaters waited patiently for him. Grabbing arms they side-along apparated into a thick woods North of London.

FH

Hermione could not sleep that night. In a few days she'd be sent off like some criminal to an isolated house in the Forest Dean to wait out what could prove to be several long months of remoteness.

Throwing her legs over the side of her bed, Hermione rose, stretching her arms sideways. She straightened her loose-fitting t-shirt and cotton drawstring pyjama shorts before venturing from her room with full intention of whipping up a late-night snack. She had just opened the fridge to examine its contents when she heard it. It was the faint, but unmistakable pop of apparition. Her stomach twisted in her gut. It could be anyone, she reassured herself. Shutting the fridge door she quietly scurried to the front window in the living room.

Her heart dropped as she watched what appeared to be at least a dozen masked Death Eaters treading silently towards the safe house. Without a moment's hesitation she gave a holler and cast a quick Patronus, hoping it would wake the residents of the safe house in time.

She could faintly hear the rustling and panicked voices of the inhabitants being abruptly roused from their sleep. Rushing to the front of the house Hermione proceeded to cast several weak wards, hoping beyond hope that her feeble, rushed attempt would keep their advance at bay for a minute or two longer. She wouldn't fool herself into anticipating more time than that.

A helpless sort of heaviness seemed to fall over the safe house as the twenty wizards occupying it rushed down the stairs, still dressed in their nightclothes. Hermione watched, her body constricting with guilt as a young refugee family clung to one another, their two frightened young girls crying as they hung desperately to their parents' legs.

"To the fireplace!" Shacklebolt instructed, quickly falling into the position of authority that the terrified sorcerers needed. "Two by two as quickly as you can! Six people can take the emergency portkey but that is all. There will be no more time for another trip."

Everything around Hermione seemed to blur as she watched the first two pairs of people, the family of four, floo away to safety. Shacklebolt then called for six more people to take the portkey. Ginny, Tonks, Luna, Neville, and Flitwick were the closest so they grabbed on. There was one more spot.

"Hermione!" It was Oliver. He met her gaze, his forest green eyes pleading with her to take the last spot, to not be the righteous Gryffindor she normally was and for once take care of herself.

"No, I…"

But before Hermione could finish her response, the house trembled and the door flew open, blasted off its hinges. The windows shattered around them and Hermione had to shield her face as shards of glass flew towards her, scratching her arms and bare legs.

There wasn't time for her to get to the portkey now and it would only leave with the sixth person. Hermione saw her Tranfiguration professor closest to the emergency portkey. A silent understanding passed between the two women. "Go Professor!" Hermione cried.

She didn't see the portkey send the six Order members to safety, but she felt its parting rush of air at the back of her damp neck. She had already spun to face the door as Death Eaters flooded into the house. They were vastly outnumbered, she thought, defeated. There were thirteen Death Eaters, and they were only eight. Of those that remained were: Shacklebolt, Arthur, Oliver, Dean, Remus, Hestia, Earnest Billoby (a runaway mugglborn from the Ministry) and herself. She fired combinations of defensive and offensive spells as the masked monsters launched their own Unforgivables at them.

"Get out of the house!" Shacklebolt ordered, casting a _stupefy_ just before one of the Death Eaters could hit Arthur Weasley, who was fighting two Death Eaters at once, with an Unforgivable. "You can apparate from there. Hurry!"

Hermione joined a tight formation with the remained eight Order members, as they fended off the Death Eaters while simultaneously working backwards towards the kitchen where the backdoor would lead safely outside.

Hermione's attention was momentarily distracted when a pained grunt sounded from just beside her. She looked to her right to see Arthur Weasley doubled over. "Mr. Weasley!" she cried. She pushed him behind the kitchen wall, ducking away from sight and evaluated his state. He'd been cursed with an organ disintegrating curse. Working faster than she thought was humanly possible, Hermione rapidly cast the counter curse. His furrowed features instantly relaxed, as the pain was relieved. He gasped a thank you. She knew he needed medical attention so she distracted Hestia Jones and had her drag Mr. Weasley outside for apparition. She obliged, scurrying out the back door. Hermione waited until she heard the pop of apparition. Satisfied she threw herself back into the onslaught of battle to join the remaining five wizards.

She hadn't been casting offensives for more than sixty seconds when she felt it, the searing pain of being hit by a curse. She stood dazed for a moment before all hell broke loose and Death Eaters came in through the back door. They were positively and irrefutably trapped. The six of them had to split, getting swallowed by the small army of Death Eaters.

Hermione successfully stupefied two Death Eaters herself, but her head was going fuzzy with disorientation. She didn't know what the curse had done to her, but she was feeling its effects in full force now. She desperately hoped that the other Order members were faring well. A bright orange spell shot past her shoulder, singing the sleeve of her t-shirt. She quickly tore off the tatters that were left.

Stumbling unsteadily into the corridor by the staircase, Hermione came face to face with Bellatrix Lestrange. A forbidding smirk formed on her thin lips. Twirling her wand through her bony figures she took one gliding step forward. Hermione unevenly raised her own wand.

"Well, well, well," she sang. "If it isn't the Mudblood bitch. You know, you've caused the Dark Lord quite the headache as of late." Her black lips curled into a scowl, as she raised her wand. "I'm going to rectify that as of this moment."

Hermione instinctively deflected the woman's curse, sending it through the wall beside her. Bellatrix cackled giddily as she fired another curse and another, each one more forceful than the next. Hermione cast her own offensive spells back at her managing to scrape the woman's shoulder. Bellatrix's posture sagged slightly but she kept launching vicious spells at her. Anger flared in her heart as Hermione fought Bellatrix, the woman who had destroyed the happiness of so many innocent people

Her vision was beginning to blur and she was seeing everything in pairs. She knew that two Bellatrix's were worse than one. Her next spell, as a result was poorly aimed.

She was so focused on her confrontation with Bellatrix that she had made an amateur mistake. She'd forgotten to stay aware of her surroundings. She tripped over the fallen corpse of an unconscious or dead Death Eater. Hermione had the sense to hold fast to her wand. She shook her head, trying to clear her vision.

"The Dark Lord will be most pleased with me," Bellatrix sang happily. She kneeled over Hermione's fallen body and stroked her cheek with a long black fingernail. "Such a pretty face. It'll be such a shame to see it burn."

With a triumphant grin, Bellatrix dug the end of her wand into Hermione cheek. She was completely defenseless. Her tongue and lips were not cooperating and despite her best efforts she couldn't form words, or even think clearly enough to cast a spell.

Then suddenly, Bellatrix gave a shriek and collapsed beside her, motionless. Hermione felt hope swell in her chest. The Order must be winning, she thought, relieved. A massive form descended over her, but aside from the largeness of the presumably male wizard leaning over her, she couldn't decipher his actual identity. She blinked trying to chase away the shadows that were creeping into her vision. She tried to sit up.

"Don't move." The voice was male, and deep and harsh. She didn't recognize it and she immediately began to panic, arms flailing as she tried to push whoever they were away. She didn't succeed and soon her vision was swallowed by darkness as she lost consciousness all together.

FH

Annoyed, Fenrir shoved the bushy-haired Mudblood's flailing arms away. He could sense that she was losing consciousness; in fact, judging by the unfocused and glazed over quality of her chocolate eyes, he doubted the witch could even see him. The curse Adrian Pucey had hit her with was one that attacked the victim's visual field and mental cognisance. As anticipated, she passed out seconds later, eyes rolling to the back of her head.

Sliding one hand around the back of her head to support her fragile neck, he lifted her head. Working quickly, he pressed the tip of his wand to her pale temple, muttering the counter-curse. He glanced cautiously over his shoulder, checking to see if any Death Eaters were lingering in the hallway. There was no one, but he could hear his companions one room over still fighting with the last few Order members. Searching for a place to hide the young woman, he spotted a small cupboard beneath the staircase. It would have to do.

He retrieved her wand and pocketed it. Scooping her light body into his muscled arms, he made for the cupboard. Pulling it open he realized that it was a broom closet. Gingerly, he lowered her inside, cursing when he hit his forehead on the ridiculously low frame. "Bloody midgets," he swore.

He took one last look at the witch who was truly an inconvenience to him, and assured himself that she was out cold, before shutting the cupboard door firmly behind him.

Straightening his trench coat and drawing his wand once more, Fenrir re-entered the living room. There were six Death Eaters still conscious and three Order members left. He took a quick survey and saw that two of the wizards had been killed; the ministry worker and the boy, Dean Thomas. Scowling he shot a hex at the oily-haired, yellow-toothed Adrian Pucey—his little vengeance for nearly costing him his most important job. Pucey passed out on the floor, boils breaking out over his skin. Shacklebolt proceeded to take down another Death Eater.

He could tell by the concentration on the faces of the last three Order members that they hadn't noticed his presence. Tired and frustrated, he shot a harmless hex at the youngest one, a Quidditch player, he believed. The boy's eyes widened as a shock of electricity jolted through him. Nothing too upsetting, Fenrir thought.

The young Order member turned his furious gaze on the massive half-wolf. With an angry scowl he shot several consecutive curses at him. Fenrir easily deflected them all, growing angry at the boy's obliviousness. If only he knew how he had put his neck on the line for the Light.

Across the living room, Fenrir caught Remus Lupin's gaze. He sneered at the wolf who growled back at him. Fenrir approached the werewolf. They faced off for a while, not so much an act but an underlying friction between them, before Remus allowed himself to be disarmed. Fenrir slammed the wolf into the wall, his forearm pressing into his throat. Not enough to suffocate him, but hard enough to be convincing.

"Where is she?" Remus demanded, his words hushed so as not to be heard by the nearby Death Eaters.

"Safe. I'll get her to the house under the cover of nightfall," he said, gritting his teeth.

"You'd better," Remus growled. His dark eyes challenged Fenrir who only sneered in reply.

"When have I ever let you down?"

Remus raised his eyebrows at that and Fenrir grumbled. "When was the last time I let you down?" he rephrased.

"Just behave and try not to scare her," Remus said firmly.

"I'm the embodiment of manly charms, Lupin." Fenrir attempted a smile that came across more like a scowl and Remus shook his head.

"You're the embodiment of something," Remus replied hesitantly. "Although I doubt that it's of 'manly charms'." Remus cast a once over of Fenrir's intimidating appearance, from his impressive yet aggressive height and build, to his carelessly unshaven stubble, to his unsettling blue eyes, and unkempt black hair. "More like the embodiment of 'masculine disregard for cleanliness'," Remus snipped.

Fenrir pushed his forearm harder into the smaller man's throat. "Don't test me, Lupin. Remember who made you. My blood runs in your veins and you'd be wise not to insult me." Fenrir shot a quick glance over his shoulder, surveying the action. He turned back to Remus. "Accio your wand and hit me with something to distract them. Then you and the rest of them get the hell out of here."

Remus nodded. "I promise to be nice," he taunted as he wandlessly accioed his wand. A second later and Fenrir was struck by a particularly (and unnecessarily) solid _Stupefy._ He was thrown against the opposite wall with disorienting force.

Through his momentary disorientation he managed to catch sight of a particularly triumphant and smug expression on Lupin's face. He cursed the cocky wolf. "Cheeky bastard," he muttered, pulling himself to his feet as a dull pain pulsed in his lower-back.

And then the surviving Order members were out the back door and apparating away.


	3. By Obligation

3

Painful pulsations were ricocheting through Hermione's brain as she slowly opened her eyes. She had a splitting headache that felt like a sledgehammer was being swung unremittingly into her left temple, not to mention the acute burning behind her eyes. She was surrounded by darkness and for a moment the sensation of blindness caused panic to overwhelm her.

_Calm down_, she thought, as she tried to slow her breathing. Groping around with her hands she managed to bump into what she thought was a broom or mop. She must have knocked it over because a second later it clattered against the wall. Fumbling slightly, she almost knocked over several other items, cleaning products, most likely.

Searching for another, hopefully less hazardous wall, Hermione's fingers touched a smooth surface—a panelled door. As she slid her hands across the smooth surface she felt a latch. Her heart sped up as relief washed over her. One word sung proudly through her mind as she struggled to open it—escape. The latch came free and Hermione cautiously pushed the door open.

She was still in the safe house, she realized. She'd been in the broom closet under the stairs. Misty blue moonlight lit up the floorboards, illuminating, albeit dimly, the corridor running parallel to the staircase. Pulling herself up and out of the cupboard, she brushed off some particles of dust.

She couldn't be sure what had happened following her black out. Someone had put her in the cupboard and it must have been an auror member who had forgotten to retrieve her amidst the panic. The Order members had undoubtedly abandoned the safe house at the first given opportunity, and as for the Death Eaters… Well, it was more than likely that they were still lingering nearby, if not sleeping in the house itself, waiting to catch a stray Order member or blood traitor.

Hermione swallowed back her fear and reached for her wand. Her heart skipped a beat. It was gone. There was nothing as disarming or debilitating than realizing you've lost your wand, or worse, that someone else was in possession of it. In the Wizarding World, a wand was the equivalent of your identity. Hermione shivered at the thought of who might have taken it. It was so personal that she shuddered at the thought of someone else making use of it. Without her wand she was far more vulnerable. If she was caught now, she was as good as gone.

She stealthily crept down the hall towards the living room. She was some ten feet away from the front door when, out of her peripherals, she noticed two dark forms on the floor in the living room. Her heart dropped and she stumbled forward, knocking her hip into a small end table. She bit her tongue and cursed her clumsiness. She hoped the thump hadn't awoken anyone. Turning away from the front door, she veered to her right and hurried into the living room. She recognized Dean Thomas immediately.

"No," she choked, lowering herself to her knees beside his limp body. She pressed her fingertips to his neck, but she already knew there wouldn't be a pulse. "I'm so sorry." She tenderly stroked the hair from his forehead, before closing her eyes and breathing heavily, her shoulders quaking under the distress that was threatening to render her completely immobile.

She leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on Dean's forehead, before rising to her feet with new resolve. She wouldn't rest until these bastards were sent to their graves in Voldemort's cowering wake. "I'll avenge you," she swore, ignoring the stray tear that had escaped her eye.

She looked at the figure beside Dean, recognizing the refugee Ministry worker. She grieved for him too. Like many others he had died as a faceless soldier, forgotten by most. But she would never forget him. No. She silently thanked him for the sacrifice he made for the Order.

Hermione made to leave the living room but stopped dead in her tracks when she heard a creak, followed by slow but heavy footsteps descending the stairs. Her heart began to pound in her chest and she spun around, searching for a place to hide.

"Come on, come on," she mumbled to herself.

She was going to be caught if she didn't find a promising hiding spot somewhere in the impenetrable darkness. Whoever was coming down the stairs had reached the landing. Her palms were sweaty now.

A large, calloused hand fell abruptly over her mouth, and a muscular arm snaked around her waist drawing her back into a shadowy corner. She was turned around and pushed back so that her shoulders struck the wall, and a tall body pressed against her. She was concealed from view and could see nothing but the chest of the man who was holding her still.

She was terrified and desperately wanted to look up and see who her rescuer was, but the warm hand covering her mouth was holding her head securely against the wall making it impossible for her to move even an inch. There was nowhere to put her hands so she had instinctively placed them lightly on the man's broad chest. She could feel the leather material of a trench coat beneath her fingertips.

The breath escaping from her nose was shallow, and the air was stifling, confined as she was in the dim and dusty corner. Her throat was constricted with panic and her body had grown cold. After a few minutes Hermione detected the sound of retreating footsteps ascending the staircase. Eventually the sound faded and the tension in her chest alleviated, but only somewhat. She was still wary of whoever had rescued her from discovery.

"One sound from you and you're as good as a dead woman. You hear me?" the gruff voice asked.

Hermione swallowed. The voice was certainly not a friendly one. Any security she had permitted herself to feel quickly dissipated and her body tensed up once again. She nodded against his hand. He removed his hand and Hermione breathed deeply. She could smell him and it wasn't an unpleasant aroma. He smelled of grass, spice and must.

"Good. Now walk."

Her captor pulled away from the corner and pushed her towards the door, his hand placed firmly between her shoulder blades. She pulled open the front door and descended the steps. She could feel the heat of the man's body against her back. He pushed her forward, guiding her towards the thicket of trees that stood some hundred feet away.

Hermione urged herself to stay calm. It was no use screaming—the Death Eaters who were likely still in the house would come after her. And until she was able to identify her captor or rescuer—she had yet to determine—as a threat or not, she would just have to play along.

When they reached the woods, he grabbed her wrist and began impatiently dragging her after him. His long legs carried him more quickly than her own short legs could manage and she found herself stumbling over vines, holes, fallen logs and rocks. After a few minutes of being pulled along in his wake in an undignified manner, she decided she'd had enough. She wrenched her arm out of his grip.

"That's enough! Now tell me who you are and where the hell you're taking me," she demanded.

When the incredibly tall man turned to face her, Hermione felt the blood in her veins run cold. She could almost taste blood in her mouth as she stared true evil in the face. It wasn't possible. She couldn't have anticipated the shock his revealed identity would have on her.

"You—you're…" Hermione stumbled back a step, steadying herself with a hand on the nearest tree. She couldn't look away from his blazing, disconcertingly clear blue eyes. "Fenrir Greyback."

Fenrir growled in reply. "Who were you expecting, Mudblood? Prince Charming?" he snarled, advancing towards her with a menacing stride.

Hermione continued to back away, almost tripping over on an uprooted tree root. "Don't come any closer. Stay away from me."

He laughed. It was a cold, callous sound that sent chills rushing through her body. "What are you going to do? Run away? And where would you go? Maybe the Death Eaters will invite you in for some tea and crumpets," he taunted. He was trying to get a rise out of her, but she refused to allow him to exert his power over her so easily.

Hermione was well aware that her options were numbered. She could either oblige him and succumb (something she would never do), or flee and then eventually be inevitably caught. She wouldn't go down without a fight, she decided. That wasn't her style.

Hermione stopped backing away from him and allowed her eyes to scan the woods. Fenrir stopped as well, a coy smirk on his lips. Her face burned with defiance. He was enjoying every moment of her desperation, basking in her fear. Her terror lent itself to his high of feeling like the powerful one in the situation. Well, she wouldn't make it that easy for him.

Her knees bent and her shoulders tensed. Fenrir shifted in place and Hermione knew he had sensed her change of stance. He was anticipating her flight. Without another thought, she bolted. Hermione had been on the run for so long that she had grown used to being agile and quick. Her legs were strong and lean and carried her far and fast. She leapt over a fallen trunk but didn't dare look back. All that mattered was getting away from the vile werewolf. Nothing would break her concentration.

After several minutes her legs began to burn, but she ignored it. Over time she had learned to love the burn, to acknowledge it and then push the pain to the recesses of her mind. This was freedom or certain death. She slowed down, only minimally, to dart around a particularly large oak tree and she crashed headfirst into something firm.

"Oomph!" Her arms flailed as she fell backwards, dropping sorely onto her bum. Her head was fuzzy as the object she had collided with began to move. Her heart dropped. It wasn't a something. It was a someone. Fenrir.

The werewolf crouched over her fallen form, a dry smirk on his face. Hermione didn't dare breathe as he growled at her, revealing perfectly white teeth. With one hand he grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her mercilessly to her feet. Hermione shrieked in pain.

"Shut up," he spat. He lowered his head so that his gaze was level with hers. "Did you really think you could outrun me, runt? Did you forget what I am? I'm a hunter, a snatcher, a _werewolf_. I can smell you from a mile away," he said low and huskily. Hermione shivered as he pressed his nose to her throat and breathed in deeply. "I can hear your every heartbeat." She jumped, throat constricting, as he pressed his large hand over her heart, applying just enough pressure to instill in her the fact that he was more powerful than her and a threat not to be taken lightly.

His face was so close to hers that she couldn't help but learn his face. His bright blue eyes were disturbing. Something in their depths left her feeling incredibly vulnerable and transparent. He had dark eyebrows and his cheeks and chin were covered with days old stubble. His nose was pronounced and he had a strong, defined, sharp jaw. It was a handsome, albeit rugged face.

"What are you going to do to me? Kill me? Torture me?" Hermione demanded, lifting her chin.

Fenrir cocked his head to the side. "Seeing as my obligation is to deliver you securely and in one piece, then no. Unfortunately," he added with a distasteful sneer.

"So you're going to bring me to Voldemort to reap whatever obscene reward he's placed on my head?" Hermione glared at him, her eyes burning with a hatred so absolute that she was pleased to see Fenrir draw back a little.

He stood to his full height, which Hermione realized was at the very least 6'5. His broad build was intimidating standing so close to him and being a mere 5'3.

"The price on your head is a very generous one. I'm surprised you haven't been brought to him yet by your little friends," he jeered.

"My friends would never betray me," Hermione stated boldly. "No sum of money or assurance of protection would tempt them to bring me to him. Unlike your comrades, they are brave and selfless."

"And you're a fool, then. Greed is innate in all of us. War brings it out in everyone, even those who would normally repress it," Fenrir said icily.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. She'd heard from so many people that Fenrir Greyback was the ignorant, idiot lap dog of Voldemort, whose only redeeming trait was his ability to stalk prey. This Fenrir seemed remarkably well-spoken, which surprised her immensely and frustrated her at the same time.

"I disagree," Hermione said defensively.

Fenrir glared at her. "And you're stalling."

Without giving her a chance to reply, he released her hair and grabbed both of her wrists, one in each hand. A familiar sensation of unsteadiness and reality around her began to waver. He was side-along apparating them. As the fuzziness dissolved into the view of a clear landscape, Hermione felt the solid ground rise up to meet her feet. She would have fallen over but Fenrir still held her wrists in a painfully fierce grip.

Looking past Fenrir's arm, all she could detect was more forest stretching beyond them. "Where are we?" Dread rose in her stomach. Nothing could prepare her for facing Voldemort, but she could at least know where she was. Knowing her location would help alleviate the sensation of foreignness and aloneness.

"The Forest Dean," was his gruff reply.

The Forest Dean… that was where the safe house designated for her by the Order was. Was it possible that it was located so close to Voldemort's own lair? Fenrir released her wrists gingerly and began to walk forward. Hermione turned reluctantly to follow him and halted as her eyes fell on a quaint white cottage.

The cottage itself was small, and a simple four walled, two-storeyed structure. Could this really be Voldemort's lair? Hermione took in the bright yellow front door and the sky blue flowerboxes hanging in the windows. There was a pretty little flower garden just in front and a flagstone walkway leading to the front porch. There was nothing sinister about the charming little house. It was so normal, Hermione almost rejoiced.

"What is this place?" she asked suspiciously.

Fenrir ignored her as he headed up the flagstone path. He climbed the stairs and paused with his hand on the brass doorknob. He looked at her with a bored expression. Hermione found the sight itself to be rather bizarre. To see the rugged and darkly outfitted Fenrir Greyback standing in front of the picturesque and beautifully bright cottage created a peculiar contrast. He looked so out of place. It might have been amusing had her circumstances been less dire.

"This is your safe house," he said simply.

Hermione's mind was racing as confusion took hold of her. He knew about the safe house? "How do you know about that? Where's Voldemort's den?" she asked cautiously, distrustful of him.

The snatcher rolled his eyes. "You haven't figured it out yet?" he scoffed. "And I heard you were the brightest witch of the generation. Can you really be that daft?" he asked nastily.

Hermione didn't grace his question with a reply. His snarky comment didn't merit one.

"You're safe here, Mudblood. Lupin should be here soon to debrief you," he said emotionlessly.

Her normally clear-sighted thoughts were now a chaotic jumble of loose ends. Hermione began to cautiously approach the cottage. "You work for the Order? You're a double agent?" she questioned.

Fenrir threw open the door and waved his arm in a grand gesture for her to enter. "You're remarkable, really," he said sarcastically. "A veritable mastermind."

Hermione glared at him. She felt a headache coming on. She didn't understand any of this. How could Fenrir Greyback possibly be working for the Order? It was common knowledge that he was one of the most cruel, heartless, bloodthirsty killers in the Wizarding World. He was renowned for his hunting skills and even more renowned for his senseless killing and thirst for innocent blood. And he was mean. Yes. Very mean, and aggressive, she thought, unconsciously stroking her scalp where he had yanked her by the roots of her hair.

Hermione paused in front of him before crossing the threshold. "I don't believe you," she breathed, lifting her chin and turning her gaze to his.

His blue eyes narrowed with annoyance, then he reached into a deep pocket on the front of his trench coat and withdrew a familiar, slender wooden object—her wand. Hermione's heart exploded with relief and joy. Her wand—her identity and security in an instant restored.

"You'll be wanting this, I assume."

Hermione timidly, albeit gratefully, took her wand from his extended hand. She held his gaze for a moment, evaluating him. She eventually averted her eyes. "Thanks," she mumbled.

Fenrir made no reply. He crossed the threshold of the cottage and disappeared within its quaint interior.

Hermione waited a moment, reacquainted herself with her wand, twirling it through her fingers and caressing its smooth length with her palm, before entering the house behind him.

FH

Fenrir strode into the comfortable living room off the side of the cottage's entrance hallway. He'd been there several times before with Lupin or on his own. Mostly he'd gone to prepare it for the Order, and sometimes, but more rarely, he'd gone just to find a quiet place where he could think in peace and catch up on lost sleep. It was exhausting work, playing a two-sided coin.

He collapsed into the small blue sofa, and crossed his legs in front of him. He stared straight ahead at the white wall in front of him and listened. He could hear the annoying woman running her fingers over her wand. He could hear her bated breath as she crossed the threshold into the cottage, as if anticipating a hex or curse to be cast her way.

He snorted condescendingly. War had left the wench a nervous wreck and wary of her surroundings, which wasn't a bad thing, per say, considering the unexpectedness of war. No circumstance was free from change. Her soft footsteps cautiously wandered down the hall. He sensed her pause in the doorway to the living room. He could feel her delightfully dark and perceptive chocolate eyes resting on the back of his head.

"Enjoying the view?" he muttered.

She seemed to hesitate before padding into the room and seating herself in the armchair furthest from him. He watched her carefully, disdainfully.

"I don't get it."

Fenrir quirked an eyebrow at her. "Care to elaborate?"

She flushed slightly as though she'd been chided like a child. "I don't understand why you'd help the Order? That is if you're telling the truth and there isn't actually an impressive concealment charm disguising a hideous castle wherein slithers the likes of Voldemort," she stated evenly.

Fenrir's lip quirked at the corner. She could be rather amusing, he thought. Perhaps it wouldn't be complete hell to be in her company for the next few months after all.

"Well?" she prodded.

Fenrir set his face into an unreadable expression. "I'm an enigma," he shrugged nonchalantly, eyes twinkling with amusement.

Granger's full lips pouted slightly, her eyes glaring sharply at him. Her frizzy hair seemed to crackle as her anger wafted off of her skin like a palpable heat. Her obvious frustration was entertaining.

"Do you make it a habit of distrusting anything you don't understand?" he asked, examining his dirty nails frowningly. His hygiene was lacking as of late. He could benefit from a hot shower.

He diverted his gaze back to her when she failed to answer. She looked flustered. "I'm just being precautious," she claimed defensively.

Fenrir only nodded and they lapsed into silence. He continued to watch her, his sharp eyes roving over her tense shoulders, stiff neck, and nervous finger movement. As if the woman could be any more obvious that she was ill at ease around him. He found himself feeling offended, which was a new feeling to him, considering he couldn`t give a rat`s ass what people thought of him.

Her attention was diverted by something beyond his left shoulder. Fenrir didn't have to look to know that Lupin had finally arrived. He had heard him come in through the floo in the kitchen just across the hall.

Hermione sat up straight in her seat, eyes wide with relief. "Remus! He—Greyback—why didn't you tell me?" she demanded. She was evidently cross with her old professor.

"There aren't many who know about Fenrir's allegiance, and we would prefer to keep it as such," Remus said apologetically. "Are you all right?"

Hermione didn't seem to be buying it and ignored his last question. "But he's positively beastly!" she exclaimed dubiously. "He has innocent blood on his hands. You can't possibly trust him."

Fenrir growled and they both turned to look at him as though noticing him for the first time. "I'm right here, you know. And you're wounding by ego, sweetheart," he drawled. He didn't like being ignored, or insulted as a matter of fact, especially by the likes of a snobby bookworm.

Hermione only fixed him with an infuriated look. "None of this makes sense," she continued, waving her small hands in his general direction. "Where's the logic?"

Fenrir grunted and Lupin shot him a warning look. "Fenrir's reasons for helping us are his own, but we're grateful to have him on our side. He's an excellent source of information."

"But he's a monster! He's a bloodthirsty, heartless killer!" she protested, rising to her feet with passion.

Fenrir rose as well, and he was incensed. He took a few menacing steps towards her. Her impudence was seriously offending him. "Shut your trap you thankless wench," he threatened. "I got your sorry ass out of that house without a single scratch. I put myself on the line to get you here. You ought to show some respect," he advised her, his voice dropping a tone lower.

Hermione advanced towards him as well. "I don't owe you anything!" she cried, throwing her hands up angrily. "From what I recall, you were anything but kind and gentlemanly. I almost sprained my ankle being dragged through the woods by you. And you pulled me by the hair like some unfeeling rag doll! That really hurt!"

"Fenrir." Lupin's voice was low and reproachful.

Fenrir shot the wolf a fierce glower. "What?" he snapped. So maybe he could be indelicate and insensitive at times. But at least he got the job done. "It's not like she's a ray of sunshine either!" he replied.

"Look," Lupin began in an attempt to calm the churning waters between him and Hermione. "Just calm down—the both of you. It's been a long day and I think we can all use a bit of rest. Now, I need to get back to our new base. Can I trust you two to not tear each other's throats out when I'm gone?"

Hermione nodded mutely and Fenrir didn't grace the other werewolf with a reply. He was too preoccupied with glaring at the source of his latest migraine.

"Good. I'll be back tomorrow to talk through our next plan of action."

With a general nod of dismissal, Remus disappeared across the hall and into the kitchen. Fenrir listened as the floo fired up, announcing his departure. He stood, stretching his long, muscled limbs. "Well, I'm burnt out and your incessant questions have left me with a bleeding headache," he announced.

"Ha ha," Hermione deadpanned, rising to her feet as well.

He watched her shuffle her feet, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

"Are you staying here? In the cottage?" she asked quietly.

"Does that bother you?" he growled back.

She didn't reply. "Where's my room?"

"This way," he motioned towards the hallway. He was aware of her following him as he strode down the hallway, past the kitchen and washroom. He ascended the stairs and then paused between the five doors leading to separate bedrooms. He held his hand out, gesturing for her to take her pick.

He watched her reach tentatively for the oak door nearest to them. He grinned behind her back at her choice. She placed her hand on the doorknob and began to turn it. He moved quickly, pressing his chest to her back and covering her small hand with his large, warm one. She stiffened against him, and he leaned forward, his lips at her ear.

"Except that one," he growled, the sound reverberating from deep in his chest. "That one's mine."

He felt her shiver, and delighted in how effortless it was to set her off. She made to step back, but he didn't move, keeping her trapped between his chest and the door.

"Unless you would like to join me? But I'll forewarn you, I'm not one for snuggling," he taunted. He couldn't supress his victorious smile as she shoved him away from her.

"You're disgusting," she retorted.

Her cheeks were flushed as she threw open the door beside his and slammed it behind her. He shrugged to himself, unperturbed and went into his own room, discarding his trench coat on the chest at the foot of his large bed. He proceeded to pull his shirt over his head before sitting down on the comfortably large bed, discarding his leather boots and socks.

He threw back the sheets and lay down, staring up at the ceiling. He could've gone back to his Pack tonight, but he figured it'd be more advisable to stay at the cottage in case Granger did something incredibly stupid, like run away. He groaned as he rolled onto his stomach and threw his pillow over his head. Blast her, he cursed. From the pounding at his temples, he was convinced his brain was on the verge of imploding.

He removed the pillow and with his wand darkened the room even more. He could hear the sound of rustling coming from the bedroom beside his. His first instinct was to grab his wand and investigate, but that was only because he was unaccustomed to having company in the cottage. He released a deep breath and tried to ignore her noisy shuffling.

Right before sleep claimed him he heard a sound unfamiliar to him. He focused on the rhythm of her uneven, ragged breathing and then detected the source of the strange sound. She was weeping into her pillow creating awfully annoying, muffled, snivelling sounds. He rolled his eyes. This is why he could never live with a woman. They were sensitive, weepy little things. He shuddered.

Maybe he felt somewhat guilty for being an unmitigated insensitive ass to her. He thought about it for a minute. Nope. No regrets, he told himself. He wouldn't feel sorry for the things he'd done and continue to do, nor would he regret the things he said. The runt had said it herself, he was a heartless killer. He was remorseless.


	4. By the Laws of Courtesy

**Thanks for all the reviews. I love to read the comments you guys leave-they're tremendously encouraging! Also, sorry this update took so long—I appreciate your patience :)**

**Merci d'être si encourageant et pour votre patience! Je sais que ce chaptire a pris un peu de temps :)**

**Enjoy!**

4

It took Hermione several anxious seconds to register where she was. The sensation of waking up in a novel environment for the first time was something she had always found to be disquieting. The room itself was painted teal with dark-stained wood furnishings. Her queen-sized bed was flanked by two night tables; on each stood a small table lamp. A rich, mahogany chest, marked with all the quaint intricacies of an antique piece of furniture, sat at the foot of the bed. And one window overlooked the stretch of grass behind the house, beneath which was a plush window seat decorated with silver cushions.

The house was certainly homely enough, and agreed with Hermione's simple tastes. However one indisputable feature of living in the cottage left her feeling a distressing uneasiness.

Fenrir. She was having an immensely difficult time reconciling herself with the fact that Fenrir Greyback was an ally to the Light. He had saved her life, albeit he had done it as though he'd been forced tooth and nail to do so. He was just so…

Monstrous? Immoral? No. He had no morals. He suffered from a lack-there-of of morals. He was amoral. He was cruel and pitiless. And the deeds he was renowned for having committed over the years were callous and heinous. She shook her head. She didn't buy his supposed allegiance one knot. Lupin was one of the only people she trusted with her life and knew was wholly devoted to their cause. But she was inclined to believe that his normally unimpeachable judgement had slipped for the first time.

Rolling out from the warmth of her sheets, Hermione pulled off her nightdress. She slipped on a pair of jean shorts and snapped on a black bra. As she reached for a loose black t-shirt, her bedroom door was rudely flung open.

She screamed, in a state of both shock and rage, when Fenrir appeared in the doorframe of her room completely unannounced. His eyes darkened as he appreciatively took in her shirtless appearance, an amused grin lighting his face.

"What the hell?!" she shrieked, clutching her shirt over her bare torso.

Fenrir crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, smirking. "I'm hungry."

Hermione's mouth fell open. "You're kidding me." When Fenrir made no reply, she jabbed her finger sharply towards the door. "Get the hell out of my room, you ungracious ass!"

Fenrir chuckled. "Are you going to make breakfast willingly or do I need to coerce you?"

Hermione frowned crossly at him. He was so damn impudent. "Get out so I can change," she ordered. "We're not having this discussion until I have clothes on."

Fenrir shrugged and put one hand over his eyes. "I'll wait."

With a furious huff of breath Hermione roughly yanked on her t-shirt beneath the cool gaze of his scrutinizing blue eyes. She grabbed her wand and pocketed it. His sense of entitlement irked her to the core. She wasn't his maid, and would most certainly not bow to his will like some uneducated dunce.

"You're revolting," she spat as she attempted to walk past him.

He wouldn't budge from the doorframe. His amused expression had quickly transformed into one of contempt. "I'd try being a little nicer, Mudblood," he sneered. "I'm the one who'll be babysitting your precious rump for the majority of time you'll be stuck here. Show some respect," he scowled.

Hermione ground her teeth together, trying in vain to calm the churning waves of anger that were currently wracking her mind. "Respect?" she ground out, evening her breaths. "You mean, since you're the ideal example of respect—right, because barging suddenly into a woman's room while she's changing is the epitome of courtesy?" she retorted sarcastically.

For several heated moments, they stared into each other's eyes. Ice blue battled with warm, chocolate brown. Hermione had to strain her neck to see into his eyes, and Fenrir, in turn, looked condescendingly down his nose at her.

Hermione, who always ended up being the voice of reason in any given situation, spoke up first. "This is ridiculous and immature. I'll make us breakfast this morning, just this once mind you, because I'm starving," she offered with cold civility. "Then you can debrief me a bit and we'll lay some ground rules."

Fenrir growled in reply and led the way downstairs to the kitchen. The kitchen was painted a cheerful yellow, with beautifully furnished white cupboards and French glass windows. She paused to admire the bright, sunny space, sighing contentedly. If she had ever envisioned a dream kitchen, this would most certainly be it—warm, inviting, homey. As her eyes scanned the room, they lingered a moment on Fenrir, whose dark appearance once again seemed out of place in the charming piece. He was hunched over the round glass table, staring crossly out the kitchen window.

Ignoring him, Hermione began to familiarize herself with the kitchen—where the dishes were, the stock of food in the fridge and pantry, the dishtowels and cleaning products. She quickly whipped up a batch of pancakes. She used her mother's recipe, one that her mother had cooked every Sunday morning of her childhood while growing up in primary school. She had made it a point to learn the recipe since it was, in fact, her absolute favourite—fluffy buttermilk pancakes banana foster style. Misty moisture swelled up in the corners of her eyes. She was feeling nostalgic all of a sudden, and it left her heart aching to see her beloved parents again.

It had been four years since she'd seen her parents, and the separation from them had almost proven too much for her. If she closed her eyes, she could still envision that day clearly in her mind, as if it had merely been a day ago. Embracing her parents and removing all memories of their daughter. She had sent them off to Australia, with no intention of returning to England. She released a shuddering breath and flipped her pancakes before they could burn.

Blinking back the tears, she prepared two generous plates and brought them to the table. Fenrir sat silently, watching her in brooding silence. He hadn't moved an inch throughout the time she'd been cooking, but she had felt his gaze lingering on her and following her movements as they bore a burning hole into her back.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked harshly, digging into his food without any acknowledgement of her efforts.

Hermione glared at him, quickly wiping away any stray tears. "It's nothing to concern yourself with."

"I wasn't concerned," he said coldly.

She hated him. He was so ungrateful and entitled. He was cold and insensitive, probably incapable of love or of being loved, she thought bitterly.

They ate in tense silence for a time. Hermione sliced absently into her pancakes. Even the familiar sweetness of syrup swelling on her tongue couldn't help alleviate the dread that had settled in her stomach. She couldn't fathom being trapped in the cottage with Fenrir Greyback for the foreseeable future. He possessed an appalling character.

When Fenrir finished shovelling her pancakes into his mouth, he roughly pushed the plate aside. Hermione put her own fork down, slamming it onto the table top.

"How can you be so churlish?" she demanded. "You're positively boorish! I made a lovely breakfast for us, despite my own loathing of you, and you shovel it down like some animal and can't even be bothered to thank me!" she cried heatedly.

Fenrir's lips curled into a ferocious snarl as he leaned across the table towards her. Hermione didn't back down. "Guess what, sweetheart? I _am_ an animal. And I don't do domestic, never have. So if you're expecting me to snivel in awe as I fall to my knees professing my admiration for your culinary finesse, then you're sorely mistaken."

With that he grabbed his empty plate and tossed it across the room where it landed, and shattered loudly, in the sink.

"You're medieval!" Hermione yelled, standing abruptly. She dumped the rest of her breakfast into the trash having quickly lost her appetite. Sliding the plate into the dishwasher she then cleared away the shards of Fenrir's plate with her wand.

Sobs began to wrack through her body, and she couldn't help it. She couldn't have imagined the grief that being in the presence of Fenrir would evoke in her. Her mind was already abounding in emotion that morning from reminiscing about her parents, and Fenrir's rudeness was not helping her mood in the slightest. Folding her arms over the tiled countertop and placing her forehead on her forearms, the tears began to flow freely down her cheeks—unobstructed channels substantiating her inner turmoil. She didn't care if Fenrir saw her crying, maybe he'd feel some guilt. _Probably not_, she thought bitterly.

"I'm going." Fenrir's rough voice roused her from her sorrow.

She looked up at him, her lashes decorated with beads of water, her cheeks flushed and eyes puffy. "I don't care," she said softly, but the underlying resentment was there.

"I have issues to resolve with several people in high places," he continued ambiguously. His expression seemed to darken with an unidentifiable emotion as he observed her distress.

"So go," she said sharply, louder than before.

Fenrir watched her for a moment before removing his trench coat from the coat hanger on the kitchen wall. He slid it over his broad shoulders. The long appendage seemed to elongate his body, the ends of his dark hair skimmed the top of the doorframe. "Don't leave the cottage until I return," he ordered.

Hermione shrugged, turning away from him to stare out the window. "Whatever."

She heard the heavy fall of his boots as he came up behind her. She still did not turn. His warm breath was on her neck and she suppressed a shudder. "I am responsible for you. That is an obligation I have given myself to. Although you may be convinced that I'd sooner rip out your jugular than take a dark curse for you, you should know that's untrue. Maybe over time you'll come to realize that your impression of me is very much flawed."

Hermione spun around harshly, anger swelling in her chest like an unquenchable flame. Her breath caught in her throat as she faced him. His proximity to her was unsettling. He was not three inches away from her, his head lowered to nearly her eye-level. She faltered as she attempted to form the words that were caught in her throat. "Maybe if you were remotely decent I'd be more inclined to have a generous opinion of you," she said roughly.

"Maybe if you weren't such a bloody, overbearing nuisance I'd be more inclined to care," he snapped right back.

Hermione glared at him. "Just go, Fenrir."

He didn't move at first. The muscles in his strong neck twitched beneath his stubbly skin as he his jaw grew taut. He eventually drew away from her, exuding obvious strain and frustration. "Stay out of trouble."

Hermione didn't utter a reply as he disappeared down the hallway, slamming the front door behind him, and leaving the window panes shuddering in his fearsome wake.

OOO

Fenrir slammed the door behind him. Bloody pain in the ass, that woman was; like he gave a damn about things like privacy and etiquette. In the Pack there was a rule that governed social life. The men hunted, the women gathered and prepared food; and both the men and women tilled the land. Of course there were exceptions, but their lifestyle had order and logic to it. They had a system and it just worked.

Now Granger, she was too damn complicated for his taste. He was there to protect her, and the least she could do in return was cook him a hot meal; screw her entitled modern ideals. And the tears—Merlin, as if her whining wasn't enough. Tears were something he couldn't cope with or relate to. He was a werewolf, not a therapist. He growled angrily as he treaded across the lawn and dodged into the cover of the woods surrounding the cottage.

He manoeuvred through the brush and trees, navigating his way with expert adeptness. His ears perked at the sound of a snapping twig. He stopped walking to listen. The soft clopping sound was distinctive—a deer, not fully grown but not a fawn; not a buck, but a young doe. He scanned the trees to the West, his vision sharpening as it narrowed in on the brown creature grazing contentedly some two hundred paces away. A predatory snarl escaped his lips and the doe's head lifted, alerted to his presence.

Instinct was overcoming his senses. He thirsted for the satisfying exhilaration of the hunt. The doe took a cautious step forwards, and Fenrir licked his lips, watching her slender, knobbly legs quiver as she prepared for flight. He felt his canines lengthening painfully in his mouth, his back began to hunch, his arms swelling. _Run little doe, run,_ he thought hungrily. He'd gone too long in human form. His inner werewolf was ripping at the seams of his humanness.

A sharp pain exploded suddenly in his forearm and he growled angrily. The doe darted off into the trees, and Fenrir made no attempt to pursue her. He'd been summoned. His teeth retracted, and his body realigned from the nascent steps of transformation. He scowled to himself, having honestly expected Voldemort to call for him sooner. But alas, the Dark Lord always managed to catch him at the wrong time.

He rubbed his forearm absently where the skin burned ever-so-slightly. He'd been branded with the Dark Mark one year ago, after Voldemort had included him into his ranks of Death Eaters. While he still served as a Snatcher with Scabior and his goons, he was also called to more battles and incursions against the Light.

Fenrir resumed his walk through the woods until he happened upon a clearing. His body was itching to run, to transform and rip his teeth into the supple flesh of his prey. It would have to wait, he thought decidedly, as he apparated away.

OOO

Fenrir let himself into the dilapidated shack in the woods. It was a dreary place. The mangled trees surrounding the shack were black and charred. Their leafless branches twisted like deadly claws grasping avariciously at the night sky. The inside was no brighter, however it was much larger than one would expect. The disillusionment charm Voldemort had used had properly disguised what was in fact the abandoned remains of a foreboding nineteenth century castle.

The dimly lit hallway echoed as the door shut soundly behind him. Two unmasked Death Eaters stood guard just inside and nodded once at him. "He's in the second floor parlour," the Death Eater said. Fenrir said nothing in return, but noted how young the Death Eater appeared. Surely not even seventeen, he thought bitterly. They were starting them off younger and younger. Following the shocking death of Harry Potter six months prior, Voldemort had begun recruiting thirteen year old boys into his training ranks. It was a repulsive practice. These children would never be able to have their childhood back.

Fenrir ascended the steps to the second floor. The old marble groaned under his weight. On the second floor was a bit more activity. Several Death Eaters roamed about. Some he recognized, others he did not.

He passed by the billiard room where several Death Eaters lounged about, drinking and playing a lazy game of cards. Off to one corner were the Lestrange brothers, Rodolphus and Rabastan. They were dangerous men, evil to the core. There was a very perversely unfeeling nature to them. Fenrir tried as much as possibly to avoid their company. The Carrows, Alecto and her brother, Amycus, bickered loudly about some gossip, of which he had little interest in. Finally, he recognized the white blond hair of Lucius Malfoy who was speaking with Nott, Macnair and Yaxley.

He briefly made eye contact with Yaxley. She was an impressively skilled Death Eater, and incredibly lethal. She had evaded capture so many times that the Death Eaters had come to call her the Seducer of Shadows. She was rather tall, 5'9, he'd guess, with wild red hair and ivy green eyes. She puckered her dark-stained red lips at him and winked seductively. Fenrir growled low in his throat as she excused herself from the men and approached him, her hips swaying purposefully with each long stride.

She stopped by his side and slid one hand along his chest, scraping her long red nails against his shirt. "The Dark Lord's displeased with you," she said huskily.

Fenrir glared down at the woman with his icy blue eyes. Yaxley had only reappeared nine months ago. She'd been missing for four years and no one had heard from her. But she was back for good, and her talents with a wand almost surpassed those of the maniacal Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Is that so?" Fenrir replied dispassionately, removing her hand from his chest.

Yaxley didn't seem bothered by this and planted herself in front of him, gripping his hips tightly with her slender hands. He narrowed his eyes at her when she squeezed his hips, pushing herself against him. It wasn't a secret that Yaxley was something of a vixen. She'd made it a point to be with as many Death Eaters she could, men and women alike, from what he'd heard. She been with most of them, save for a few, Fenrir included. But he knew she had her eye on him. He was a werewolf after all, sensitive to others' behaviours and actions. In any case, Yaxley's lustful advances were anything but discreet.

"What do you want, Yaxley?" Fenrir demanded impatiently.

"Just you," she purred, rubbing her hips sensuously against his.

Fenrir winced, as he felt his member harden in his pants. He hadn't had a woman for months and he was slowly realizing that he needed release. But it wouldn't come in the form of the enthusiastic Yaxley. "Not likely," he snarled.

Yaxley only smiled, flashing her unnaturally white teeth at him. "You won't be able to resist me forever, Fenrir. I always get my man." She released his hips and winked, licking her lips with her tongue.

Fenrir shoved past her and marched determinedly past the billiard room to the parlour. The door was standing ajar. He could hear shrieking coming from inside and he recognized the voice instantly.

"I had her, my Lord! She'd been struck by my curse! I could have had her!" Bellatrix shrieked angrily.

"Enough, Bellatrix. The past tense doesn't concern me. I want her _now_," Voldemort hissed venomously. "You disappoint me."

Bellatrix whimpered. "I swear I will have her yet, my Lord."

"Leave me," Voldemort said coldly.

Fenrir waited, listening to the sound of Bellatrix's footsteps. She shut the door behind her and glared at Fenrir. "Bellatrix," he said curtly.

She sneered at him. "Greyback. It's your fault, you know. It was your task to retrieve the Mudblood bitch and you failed him."

Fenrir shouldered past her and opened the parlour door, ignoring the irritating woman. Before he could shut the door behind him, he heard the questionably insane woman coo, "I hope you like pain."

Fenrir paused as the door shut behind him, before he stepped further into the candlelit parlour. Voldemort was seated in his tall, black, leather wingback chair. His red eyes followed Fenrir as he came to stand before him, bowing his head as expected. His grey fingers clutched the arm rests of his chair, drumming impatiently. Fenrir pulled his trench tighter around his frame. The room itself was sub-zero. The only source of warmth came from the hearth which was lit with a fire.

"Fenrir," he hissed through his jagged grey teeth. "You have failed me."

"I am sorry, my Lord. I take full responsibility," he replied detachedly.

Voldemort nodded and with some degree of difficulty got to his feet. "I put you in a position of power for this mission. The Mudblood was there, within your grasp, yet somehow she evaded you."

Fenrir said nothing. He quieted the thoughts running through his mind, guarding his knowledge and steeling himself against a possible infiltration of his mind. He waited, eyes narrowed, as Voldemort continued.

"You could be great, Fenrir. You are far above the talents of the Snatchers. You could be my equal if you would only open your mind to the ways of Dark Magic."

"I won't disappoint you again," Fenrir said firmly.

"Let's hope not. But before you leave, you must be properly punished," Voldemort said, his red eyes twinkling with sadistic pleasure. "You are accountable, and you will fear my wrath."

Fenrir didn't have a moment to prepare himself for the onslaught, because a second later his vision went white as pain seared through his body, leaving him heaving on the floor.

OOO

Hermione was bored. Fenrir had left early that morning, and with no one to argue with, she had been forced to find a way to entertain herself. She had explored the entire house, leaving no stone unturned. There was a library, for which she was grateful. She had been pleased to discover several of her favourite classics decorating the shelves. She'd explored the mudroom, the two washrooms, the living room and the other three bedrooms. She still preferred the bedroom she'd chosen over the others.

The only room she'd left untouched was Fenrir's. She had been tempted to have a quick peak, but something in her conscience had chided her for the very thought, and had succeeded in discouraging her from invading his privacy. Besides, she'd be a self-proven hypocrite if she'd entered his room without permission, especially considering how she'd blown a fuse when he'd entered her room unannounced earlier that morning. No, for now the contents of his bedroom would remain a mystery.

After three hours of sheer exploration, she had settled down to read _Persuasion_, by Jane Austen. It had been her mother's favourite book. It wasn't by any means a particularly long and grueling novel, so naturally she had finished it in a few short hours. And that's how she found herself at two o'clock in the afternoon—unbearably bored.

And where was Fenrir, anyway? She made a mental note to add that as a ground rule. Before leaving he had an obligation to tell her when he'd be back. It was the courteous thing to do0. Her list of ground rules included several other important details that she believed to be essential when sharing a locale with someone. They included: no boots in house—they left a mess, and it would be a sin to ruin the lovely polished oak floors; always knock before entering a room—for obvious reasons; kitchen responsibilities should be shared—if they were going to eat meals together then it was only fair to divvy up the meals or cooperate on them; no growling, snarling or yelling at the table—that was basic table etiquette; and lastly, permit another privacy when privacy is needed. There would come a time when they would need to escape from each other. In such cases, privacy was due and shouldn't be infringed on.

Hermione didn't think her rules were overly complicated or demanding, but Fenrir was a drama queen and she was anticipating him making a fuss over them, and quite possibly pulling a tantrum.

When the floo fired, Hermione resisted the urge to run into the kitchen and confront Fenrir about her new rules. Instead, she stayed curled up in her armchair and waited for him to come to her. She wouldn't chase after him. She was rather surprised when a few moments later Remus Lupin entered the living room.

"Oh! Remus!" Hermione jumped up from her seat and hugged him tightly, relieved to see a familiar and friendly face. "I thought you were Fenrir," she explained.

Remus smiled kindly at her. "How is Fenrir?" he asked, curiosity glinting in his warm green eyes.

Hermione rolled her eyes and they sat down on the sofa in the living room. "Rude and uncivil," she replied curtly.

Remus looked apologetic as he patted her knee. "I know he's rough around the edges, Hermione, but give him a chance. He'll come around. He has to adapt too, you know. He's the Alpha of his Pack. That kind of lifestyle is completely different from that of the civilized society you're accustomed to," he reasoned.

Hermione nodded, offering her reluctant consent. "I'll try, but so far he's proven himself to be quite intolerable."

Over the next few hours, Remus and Hermione outlined their plans for configuring the cottage into a healing centre. Over the next week she'd be receiving supplies and ingredients. She would begin brewing at once and the first refugees or injured would arrive in the second week. There wouldn't be too many, Remus had explained, because no active fighting had been going on recently.

The house would have to be redesigned to accommodate a treatment room. One of the upstairs bedrooms would be converted into her own personal office space where she could keep patient files, brew her potions, and store her medical supplies. The other two bedrooms would be combined and extended to accommodate sixty cots to receive people suffering from casualties.

It was dark outside when Remus finally stood and returned to the kitchen to floo back to headquarters. Hermione was sad to see him go. She wasn't fond of the idea of being alone in the cottage.

"Remus?" she asked quietly as he scooped out a handful of floo powder from the porcelain dispenser.

He turned to her with a kind smile. "What is it, Hermione?"

She nervously wrung her hands together, not wanting to sound needy. "It's just, well, it gets lonely being here on my own, and I was wondering if maybe some friends would be allowed to come visit."

Remus hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "We're trying to keep your location under the radar, Hermione. Even the patients who come here to receive medical care won't be told their location."

Hermione nodded understandingly. "All right."

Remus stepped into the fireplace but paused before tossing down the floo powder. "I'll see what I can do."

Hermione visibly brightened at that. She would love to see somebody, anybody, really. Luna or Neville, any of the Weasleys, even seeing Oliver Wood or Kingsley would cheer her up immensely.

When Remus left in a puff of green smoke it was near midnight. She was absolutely exhausted. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't manage to keep her tired eyes open. She couldn't believe that Fenrir hadn't come back yet. But she wasn't worried about him. He could take care of himself. She just hated waiting and not knowing.

Ascending the oak stairs to the second floor, Hermione wearily pulled off her shorts and t-shirt. It was too warm to wear bottoms. The June summer nights were warm, leaving a thin sheen of sweat on her body. She decided on sleeping in just her underwear and an oversized white t-shirt that fell just past her bum. She lay down above the covers, too warm to nestle under the sheets.

It didn't take very long for her to drift into a dreamless sleep.

OOO

Fenrir groaned as he regained consciousness. He was still in the parlour, but it was pitch black now, definitely past midnight he figured. He rose to his feet, muttering _lumos_ under his breath to light his immediate path. His body screamed in protest as he rose to his feet. He stumbled out of the room and into the equally dark hallway. The castle was eerily silent, all inhabitants seemingly gone off to sleep.

He must have been out of it for a good nine to ten hours, he thought. His mind slowly drifted to the runt back at the cottage. It would be no surprise should he find himself the subject of her insipid questioning and chastising tomorrow morning. He growled softly. Damn her.

By the time he reached the woods outside Voldemort's headquarter and was a safe enough distance away to leave undetected, he apparated himself directly to the woods just outside the cottage where Granger would be, Merlin willing, soundly sleeping in her bed and not waiting to bombard him.

He entered the cottage silently. All was quiet and in order within its quaint walls. He could hardly walk. His hip was bruising and he was certain his wrist was sprained. His left cheek flared with pain, but he was too lazy to take care of his injuries tonight. He'd see to them in the morning. For now he needed peaceful, uninterrupted sleep.

He climbed the steps blearily, clutching the banister for support. He glanced at his bedroom door longingly, but walked past it. He didn't want to check up on her. In fact, he was positive she'd behaved herself and stayed out of trouble; if he knew enough about her then she was nothing if not cautious. However, he was obliged to confirm her security, so he paused just outside her bedroom door.

He placed a hand on each side of the doorframe and leaned in, listening intently. His chest tightened uncomfortably when his sensitive ears failed to pick up the sound of even breathing. Was she even in her room? He grabbed the knob and made to open the door, but stopped himself.

He shook his head as Granger's words from that morning came back to him. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he scowled, gritting his teeth. Pushing his pride aside, he raised his fist and knocked on the panelled door. There was no reply. "Well, I did knock," he mumbled as he pushed open the door.

Her bedroom was cast in darkness, but the blinds in the window were open wide, permitting the blue light of the moon to infiltrate the dark space. His nervousness subsided instantly as his blue eyes settled on her prone figure lying upon the bed.

Fenrir slid deftly into the room. When he was but four feet away, he finally identified her breathing pattern. She was, quite possibly, the quietest sleeper he'd ever encountered. His eyes trailed down her tiny, 5'3 figure. The bushy-haired witch was curled up on her side, facing the door, and was wearing an oversized white t-shirt that seemed to swallow her feminine frame. Her curly brown hair was splayed across her pillow, framing her delicate face. He took a moment to study her features. She seemed almost appealing when her face wasn't fixed into a scowl or disapproving frown. She had remarkably dark eyelashes. They were long and thick. Her nose had an endearing upturn to it, and her lips, however small, pouted slightly in her sleep.

His eyes fell on her pale legs which were illuminated in the moonlight. His gaze travelled up their creamy length. They were incredibly shapely—a runner's legs. Her calf muscles were beautifully defined, and her thighs were powerful and athletic, not scrawny in the least.

Fenrir smirked. Who would have thought the Mudblood had such enticing legs, and just the way he liked them—shapely, supple and succulent. An instinctive growl rose in his chest before he could repress it. His inner wolf was howling as it fought to come out, the inherent need to dominate her overwhelming him. He pushed his natural instincts aside. He was tired and she wasn't a Pack member. He had no claim over her—not that his intention was to stake any sort of claim over her, he clarified subconsciously.

Running a hand through his unkempt hair, Fenrir quickly left her room. Once in his own room, he shrugged off his trench coat, leaving it discarded on the floor where it had fallen. He then collapsed face first on his bed and closed his swollen eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him.

**So? How was it? I kind of like this chapter—and it was longer (because I know some of you wanted longer chapters)! I'm looking forward to hearing what you think!**

**Oh, and yes, Yaxley is a woman in my story. In **_**Harry Potter,**_** J.K. leaves it ambiguous as to whether Yaxley is a man or woman. Most stories that include Yaxley portray him as male, so I thought it would be interesting to portray her as a woman in this story.**

**Hope y'all liked it,**

**Ink xo**


	5. By Nature Innate

**Thank you for the reviews everyone! I really appreciate it—just the fact that you take those 60 seconds to click Review to let me know how you're finding my story, well, simply put, it warms my heart. Sorry this update took so long—I had a busy week, I had a ton of work. I hope you enjoy, and rest assured chapter 6 will come to you in half the time!**

5

This time when Hermione woke she knew immediately where she was—in her bedroom at the cottage. The early morning light filtered through her window, warming her skin. She stretched her arms above her head and permitted a small smile to grace her lips. In that moment she was content. She crossed the hallway to take a quick shower leaving her damp hair loose to air dry. She dressed quickly into shorts and a loose-fitting, navy blue t-shirt, before heading towards the staircase.

Hermione paused outside Fenrir's door. She hadn't heard him come back to the cottage last night, and she was curious as to where he had gone. Her fingers itched to knock on the door. He could have been, or could currently be, anywhere, really—with the Order, with Voldemort, with his Pack. She wasn't particularly concerned about him, or was she?

Her mother had been a remarkably compassionate woman, always concerned for her family and friends. She wouldn't even hesitate to help a stranger in need, despite their walk of life. She was the kind of woman who saw humanity as a single entity, one family that we should have an innate obligation to look out for. Hermione knew full well that she had inherited her mother's pure heart. There was no way around it—benevolence was in her genes. Sighing with defeat, Hermione gently knocked on Fenrir's bedroom door.

"Fenrir?" she called softly.

There was no answer and Hermione couldn't help but be concerned. She knew Fenrir wasn't a man you could easily sneak up on. In fact, she was quite certain that it was ultimately an impossible feat. His hearing was incredibly developed and his senses were far more accurate than the average human. He'd probably have to be dead, or partially incapacitated to not hear an intruder.

With that in mind, Hermione decided she had a right to see if he was all right. She cautiously pushed the door open. The room was dimly lit—the blinds were shut and the curtains drawn closed. Her inquisitive eyes settled on the massive and unmistakable form of Fenrir lying sprawled haphazardly across his bed.

His room was the same size as her own, only unlike the teal paint in her respective bedroom, his was a deep, rich shade of emerald. She approached the bed on tiptoes until she stood beside him. His stern face was set into a frown, and his hair was in disarray. Despite the fact that even in sleep he appeared guarded and anguished, there was something endearing about his face while he slept. She felt guilty for being so short with him the day before. In truth she'd been in a foul mood and his arrogance had rubbed her wrong.

She was about to leave when Fenrir turned his head, exposing his defined jaw and the attractively rugged stubble of his left cheek. As her eyes focused on his cheek, she just barely managed to suppress a horrified gasp. His left cheek bore a terribly mottled bruise. It was swollen and a dark purplish-black with spots of yellow throughout. She knew instantly and with absolute certainty that his cheekbone was broken.

She let her eyes travel down his body. His white shirt was stained with blood and his right wrist was coloured with a bruise similar to the one his cheek. The healer in her immediately rose to the task of administering to him. Where had he gone off to? And what had they done to him? She hesitated a moment before steeling her resolve and lightly pressing the tips of her index and middle-finger to Fenrir's broken cheekbone.

The moment her cool fingers brushed his overly hot skin, his eyes flew open. The translucent blue mesmerized her and before she knew it he had captured her wrists, one in each hand, and had flipped her onto the bed, throwing her onto her back as he trapped her beneath him.

Hermione gasped, her body trembling in shock. His blue eyes were wild and burning dangerously, as though he was prepared to attack a possible threat. He kept her pinned beneath him for several moments, his knees planted on either side of her hips, her wrists trapped above her head. Her chest heaved against his, and her heart pounded a mile a minute, accompanied by the sound of furiously rushing blood that rang through her ears. He was radiating hostile domination and she found that for once she was truly afraid of him. His blue-eyed gaze fell to her throat, noticeably darkening with an almost hungry look.

"Fenrir," she breathed, her voice ragged as her body quaked with panic.

He blinked several times and recognition sluggishly flitted across his features. The dark, almost unseeing quality to his eyes slowly lifted. His face fell into one of frustration.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled in a throaty voice, angrily shaking his head. He quickly released her wrists and climbed off of her, sitting down on the edge of his bed. He ran one hand through his hair while the other tiredly rubbed his eyes.

Hermione lay still on her back, her heart beating at an erratic pace. She carefully sat up and crawled across his bed where she sat down beside him, leaving a guarded foot of space between them. Several minutes of silence followed before Fenrir cleared his throat and stood.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he said emotionlessly.

"It's not your fault. I shouldn't have surprised you like that. I just," Hermione felt heat rise up her neck and spread across her cheeks. She looked away, embarrassed. "I wanted to make sure you were all right," she explained hurriedly.

Fenrir stared at her intently. "Is that so?"

Hermione bit her lip and rose to her feet. He wouldn't understand that it was in her nature to be concerned for people, whether she liked said person or not.

Her eyes fell on his cheek once again. She tentatively reached for his cheek, but withdrew her hand sharply, realizing her absent-minded action. "What happened to you? Where did you go yesterday?"

His gaze darkened and Hermione immediately regretted her question. "It doesn't matter," he said gruffly. Hermione frowned, crossing her arms stubbornly over her chest. She wouldn't push him for an answer; he clearly was in a particularly unhinged mood that morning. He touched his bruised cheek and winced.

Instinct took over and Hermione stepped forward, taking hold of his wrist and gently pulling his hand away. "Let me take care of that," she offered. "I'm a certified Healer after all."

After hesitating a moment, Fenrir only nodded. Hermione withdrew her wand, placing the tip to his bruised cheek and muttering an incantation. She then proceeded to do the same to his wrist. He stayed completely still the entire time, but she could feel his gaze intent on her face. When she pocketed her wand, his bruises had visibly lightened and he admitted, albeit grudgingly, that the pain was mostly gone. She couldn't help but be pleased with herself.

"You make a good patient," she said.

He grumbled something unintelligible under his breath before turning away from her and walking towards his armoire. He pulled off his stained white shirt and searched through its contents. Hermione forced herself to avert her gaze. She'd only caught a glimpse of his backside, and it was a beautifully muscled one at that. She felt herself blush as she stared at her feet. The image of the taut, sculpted muscles of his shoulders and the dimples above his waistband was burned into her mind. The multiple scars gracing his back, however, hadn't gone unnoticed. From what she'd seen they appeared ragged and looked like they had once been acutely painful. If she was being honest with herself, the wounds looked as if they'd been inflicted by claws. Hermione swallowed harshly.

When she looked up Fenrir had on a navy blue peasant-style shirt. The first few buttons were undone, revealing a sliver of tanned, toned skin. She willed the flush on her cheeks to go away. Fenrir gave her a curious look.

"I didn't know you were such a prude, Granger. Never seen a man shirtless before?" he taunted, stepping towards her.

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "I'll make us breakfast," she offered, forcing a pleasant smile to her face. She would try to be civil with him and making breakfast could be a figurative peace offering. Besides, he'd obviously had a rough night and would be in no mood to come to a compromise concerning the distribution of breakfast duty.

"Don't bother," he said coldly. Hermione could sense the change in his demeanour. It irked her how he could go from teasing to brooding in a single instant. "I think I'll skip breakfast."

She knew the frustration she was feeling, which was due to his disregard of her effort to be civil with him, was somewhat irrational, but she had to express herself. "Well, that's just typical, isn't it?" she snapped at him.

Fenrir's eyes narrowed sceptically. "Excuse me?"

"It's just typical that you'd be oblivious to the fact that I'm trying desperately to be civil with you, and I hoped to achieve that by making us breakfast," she clarified.

"I don't want breakfast," he growled, his anger growing.

"Well, fine!" Hermione cried, throwing her hands up. "You're so unappreciative. You know, Remus came to see me last night and he encouraged me to be more open-minded about you. I naively thought that if we could just manage to be courteous with each other, that I might find some redeeming quality in you." She shook her head a laughed bitterly. "How exceptionally foolish of me."

Fenrir was livid now, she could tell. His eyes had grown dark once again, and he had somehow gotten closer to her during her rant. His breath was heavy, his gaze was glazed over. "You have no idea how exceedingly stupid you're being," he snarled.

"Of course you would say that," she retorted. "You only care about yourself, you selfish git!"

In three rapid strides, Fenrir had closed the space between them, his large hand gripping her roughly by the shoulder. "I don't want breakfast, you stupid witch, because I need something more satisfying than prissy tea and scones," he berated roughly. His ragged breaths swept across her face, causing her to shiver.

She was confused by his words for a moment, but then he wrapped his other hand around the back of her neck and stroked her pulse point. He applied the slightest bit of pressure, but it was just enough to get her to realize exactly what he meant.

It was in that moment, that she realized the full weight of who Fenrir Greyback was. He was a werewolf, she thought, and a remarkably violent one at that. She had almost forgotten that he wasn't completely human. Of course he needed blood, he needed to hunt prey and feed on their flesh. She had studied enough material on magical creatures and werewolves in particular to understand that when he needed to satisfy his bloodlust he became feral.

He leaned towards her, his gaze fixed on her throat. She couldn't detect his humanity anywhere behind his crystalline blue eyes. He was all wolf now. Hermione swiftly whipped out her wand, but Fenrir's reflexes were impossibly practiced. In one fluent motion, he caught her by the wrist, bending it painfully backwards until she was forced to drop her wand—her one and only defense against him.

"Fenrir stop," she whispered pleadingly. He didn't stop. He continued to lean into her until his lips met the junction of her throat and shoulder. She jerked away from him, attempting to twist herself out of his grasp. Fenrir growled and spun her around, pushing her back a few steps until her back hit his bedroom wall. His canines scraped against her skin leaving her flesh tingling from the sensation.

Tears sprung to Hermione's eyes. She felt so helpless. She wanted so badly to take back the past few minutes and get the hell away from him. He was a brute, a cold-hearted, unforgiving beast. His canines dug bitingly into her skin. A frightened sob escaped her lips, and her knees began to buckle beneath her as her head went light with distress. And just like that the painful sting of his teeth was gone.

Fenrir now stood several feet away from her, but his gaze was focused, albeit fuzzily, on her face. She didn't know what to say. Her knees were shaking beneath her and she leaned against the wall in order to support her weight. She tentatively touched her fingertips to the spot on her neck where Fenrir had attempted to bite her. She winced. There were definitely marks, but he hadn't drawn blood.

Her tearful brown eyes met his emotionless blue eyes. She could never trust him. He was unpredictable and dangerous. She would never trust him with her life, despite the fact that he or Remus may claim otherwise.

They were both silent for a moment, before Fenrir spoke up.

"Don't wait up for me," he said huskily. "And stay out of the woods."

With that he swept out of the room. Hermione just remained where she was, silent tears sliding down her pale cheeks. She heard the front door to the cottage slam shut. She couldn't process what had just come to pass between them. She was confused and felt vulnerable because of it. Had Fenrir meant to frighten her? Or had he really been on the brink of losing control? She shuddered. Fenrir Greyback was certainly not black-and-white. All she knew was that he was a mystery to her, and unpredictable, and she couldn't trust him—she wouldn't. And she most certainly wouldn't be waiting for him when he got back.

OOO

Fenrir climbed nimbly out of the lake. The cool water coursed down his naked body, trailing along the channels and lines of his muscled body. He shook his shaggy hair out with his hands, water droplets flying every which way. He lay down on a patch of grass, closing his eyes as the warmth of the early morning sun dried the sparkling sheen of water painting his skin.

He licked his lips. The metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue. He had needed this—to transform and hunt. He'd had so many obligations and tasks in the recent weeks that he had deprived himself of several of his most basal needs. There was one other appetite he needed to whet, but he'd resolve that when he returned to his Pack. He'd go there today, in fact. He hadn't seen his family for a week, which was reprehensible for an Alpha.

He closed his eyes as the sun's rays warmed his skin. Exhaustion struck him with debilitating force. He had been worn thin this past week, and that bloody Muggleborn had done naught but contribute to his agony. He silently reflected on that morning's events. It amazed him that she had managed to sneak up on him like that, mind you, if she was as quiet awake as she was when she slept, then he supposed it wasn't as shocking. He had been dead tired last night by the time he'd arrived at the cottage.

Granger was just so frustrating. She was always on about some nonsense, and yet he couldn't bring himself to despise her entirely. Her compassion struck him as particularly endearing—endearing, _ugh_, what a sentimental word. He shuddered distastefully. The only woman who had ever genuinely worried about him was his grandmother, and knowing that Granger, who was essentially a stranger to him, had been honestly concerned about him was a foreign feeling indeed. She was just so disconnected from his personal life. She didn't know anything about him, and it he would keep it that way for as long as he could.

As for his behaviour following her naïve accusations, well, he was completely accountable. He blamed it on deprivation. He'd been wavering on the brink of spontaneous transformation for the past two weeks. Denying his nature for so long had left him indubitably agitated.

He hadn't been able to look away from her throat as she'd ranted at him about being an unappreciative ass. He could smell the blood pumping furiously through her veins, up the artery in her neck. It's even, driving pulsing had captivated him, like a seductive melody. He couldn't help the constricting that had grown in his throat, the way his mouth had gone dry at the thought of her blood on his lips.

He liked to think that he'd been completely in control when he had trapped her against the wall. His senses had gone mad at the sensation of her damp hair brushing against his knuckles as he'd help her neck, and then the floral smell emanating from her luscious hair, and the delicious scent of vanilla on her skin—well, it had been disarming.

He groaned, perhaps he hadn't been completely in control after all. It was a good thing that he'd had enough discipline to get out when he had. She may very well have been his next meal. He grew angry at the thought—angry with her for not understanding and accepting his aggressive and dominating nature, and angry with himself for losing his self-control. He wouldn't let himself get to that point again, not around the runt. She didn't have the sense about her to avoid him and not refrain from pestering him when he hit lows like the one he'd hit today.

Pulling himself to his feet, he pushed aside all thoughts of the Mudblood. He needed to see his Pack. He'd stay with them until either the Order or Voldemort summoned him. He couldn't deal with Granger. Not yet, at least.

OOO

It was noon when he arrived in the isolated hills of Northern England. He had chosen the location because it was one of the most rarely frequented areas and had decent cover and sufficient wildlife to prey on. There was no danger for his Pack to transform in the forest. They could live free of human contact, without cause to worry about attacking civilians. Despite the negative impression most wizards had of werewolves, not all were monstrous.

Fenrir accepted that he'd done terrible things, but he'd done them out of devotion to his Pack. He would do anything to keep them safe, even if it meant that he be portrayed as a blood thirsty menace. That was why he was the Alpha—he was always prepared to defend his family, to protect them from harm.

He was greeted heartily and warmly by every Pack member he passed. A surge of warmth encircled his heart. He had missed them, he realized. Of course, he'd never divulge his sentimentality to any of them. They'd hold it over his head for as long as he lived. He grinned cheekily.

The village was very quaint. Dozens of cabins stretched across several acres of meadow. The village was surrounded by fields of crops—they were a self-sustaining community. They had a school, a small clinic, a daycare. It was all very functional and communal.

Fenrir walked by a group of young pups. They were not ten years of age, running around and screaming joyfully as they pounced on each other. From a young age werewolf pups began to fall into the ways of the predator. The pups were especially notorious for being mischievous and sly.

He paused beside them and they all stopped, staring up at him with fascinated awe. They were so tiny in comparison to his massive size, and so innocent and carefree. He bent down on one knee and gestured for them to gather around him. They looked timid and somewhat frightened, but they didn't disobey him. From birth, Fenrir was introduced to all the new wolves as their Alpha—their leader and protector.

"Let me tell you something little ones," he began. "Keep on practicing and one day you'll be as big and as strong as me," he promised.

They group of children looked up at him with wide and awed eyes. They smiled happily, giggling, their eyes glistening with the elatedness of youth.

"I'm going to be strong like my dad," said one pup. He was a small boy of eight, with dirty blonde hair and bright green eyes. He knew the child's father—Roth was his Beta, his second in command. Speaking off, he would need to meet with him by the end of the day to see how the week had gone.

"I'm sure you will," Fenrir agreed, ruffling the boy's hair. He scrunched his face up and huffed in annoyance. Fenrir barked a laugh—just like his father. Roth hated it when people underestimated him or patronized him.

Fenrir didn't have to look long for Roth. He found him several minutes later carrying in a kill with some other hunters. After assuring himself that everything had gone over smoothly during the past week, he made his way to his next destination. Weaving his way through the cluster of family cabins, he finally broke through the homes and looked out onto the fertile farmlands surrounding the village.

Fenrir finally spotted her bent over a vegetable patch. She was picking off clusters of tomatoes and filling her woven basket with them.

Ellie was tall and slim, with an extremely narrow waist and a curvaceous backside. Her glossy black hair fell straight and long until it skimmed the top of her bum. When she looked up, her blue eyes met his and a pleased smile graced her full lips. She lifted the basket to her hip and began to walk towards him. She was wearing extremely short jean shorts and a black bandeau top that revealed a slim, toned stomach.

Fenrir felt a growl grow in his chest as his eyes followed every stride of her deliciously long legs and the sway of her hips. She stopped a foot away from him.

"I wondered when you'd show up," she purred.

"Is this a bad time?" Fenrir asked. His voice was strained as his member protested against the confines of his trousers.

"It's never a bad time to receive you, Alpha," she replied seductively. With that she strode off into the woods. Fenrir followed her for a good mile. It was probably the most painful mile he had walked in a long time. He needed her now.

When they were a safe enough distance from the village so as not to be heard by the sensitive ears of his Pack members, Ellie paused and discarded her basket on a stump. She turned to face him, her red lips puckered. Wordlessly, she began to undress, first popping the button of her jean shorts, then letting them fall down to her ankles. She wasn't wearing underwear, mind you, she rarely did. She proceeded to untie her bandeau, tossing it carelessly to the ground. She stood naked, hands on her hips, a confident smirk on her lips.

Fenrir barely paused a minute to appreciate the beautiful she-wolf standing before him. He desperately needed to douse the voracious burning that had been swelling in his gut for the past three weeks. With a ravenous growl he quickly undid his belt and zipper, releasing his erect member.

Ellie looked mildly amused. "Someone's been procrastinating," she taunted, running her hands lightly along his length. Fenrir groaned, and walked her backwards until she was against one of the nearby deciduous trees. "How unlike you," she mused, "to put others' needs before your own."

"Shut up," he snarled, hoisting her long legs around his waist. In one swift motion he entered her, groaning as her hot centre surrounded him. He began to thrust at a rapid pace. The sound of Ellie's soft pants filled his ears as they mingled with his own fervent grunts. He came quickly after that, bringing both himself and Ellie to the brink of blinding ecstasy. He came two more times with her, his rhythm never slowing as he pounded into her core, his pelvis crashing over and over into hers. She responded wantonly, purring and scraping his back with her long nails, raising her hips to meet each of his plunging thrusts.

He held her for a moment after they came the last time, placing light kisses along her collarbone. For a few minutes only their soft panting could be heard along with a cheerful coo of an overhead bird's song. When his head cleared, he gingerly placed her back on her own two feet.

Ellie held on to the tree, seemingly weak in knees. Her eyes were still glazed over with keen longing as she dressed herself again. "Fenrir," she breathed raggedly. She gently ran her palms across his shirt, pressing them to his chest.

He zipped up his trousers and ran a hand through his shaggy hair. "What?"

"That was amazing," she sighed, fisting his shirt in her hands and pulling him towards her once again. She bit his chin lightly with her teeth, looking into his eyes with evident desire. "It's been too long since we've done this," she continued, nipping now at his earlobe.

Fenrir's expression hardened. He didn't want to do this right now. What he and Ellie were doing was wrong; he knew full well that his actions were improper. It couldn't go on. He didn't want to jeopardize the possibility of Ellie leading a fulfilling life with some other man in their Pack.

"We can't keep doing this, Ellie," he ground out, meeting her bright green eyes. "I'm sorry."

Ellie's hands fell from his chest, confused. "Of course we can," she said with a frown.

Fenrir shook his head. "You need to find a mate, Ellie. We can't continue to be fuck buddies behind the Pack's back. It's not fair to you. You deserve better than clandestine meetings in the woods to have sex," he explained.

"Yeah, but it's fantastic sex—always is with you, Fen," she replied assuredly.

Fenrir could feel his anger growing. He needed to make her realize that she'd only get hurt. He could recognize the nascent signs of fondness growing in her heart during each encounter they shared. This agreement they had wasn't supposed to be for anything more than sexual satisfaction, but he could sense that Ellie was beginning to want more from him. And he couldn't give her more.

"Ellie," Fenrir said, grinding his teeth in an attempt to calm his frustration, "understand me when I say this was never supposed to be a permanent fixture in our lives. I've been in and out and pulled in every which way direction this past year that I needed to know I could always count on someone to satisfy me. This is not a conventional relationship, and now I realize that it was wrong of me to ask it of you."

Ellie clenched her fists at her sides. "I wanted it too," she declared stubbornly. "I still want it. I want you."

Fenrir shook his head and stepped back. "This can't continue, Ellie. It's done. You need something—someone stable."

"Then make me your Mate, Alpha," she said, straight-faced. "I'd gladly share the burden."

Fenrir could have laughed at the young woman's naivety, but he just continued to look disapprovingly at her. "Ellie, being the mate of the Alpha isn't an easy life—it's dangerous and demands patience and loyalty."

"What are you saying?" she asked.

"You're not ready to be an Alpha's mate. You're an amazing woman—beautiful—but we can't go on. I refuse to continue treating you like some harlot," he said with finality.

Ellie's face flushed red with fury. "A harlot? That's what you think of me?" she screeched angrily. She raised her hand as if to slap him, but Fenrir's instincts were far too quick. He caught her wrist in his fist and squeezed irately.

"Enough, Ellie," he snarled. "Don't forget I am your Alpha. I know what is best for your interest, and you'd do well not to question me. Now get out of my sight," he ordered, thrusting her hand out of his grip.

Ellie glared at him for another minute before shouldering past him, back towards the village. Fenrir ran a hand over his face as he considered what he had gotten himself into. His first obligation was to be Alpha, and then he'd gone and agreed to be a Snatcher for the Dark Lord; then in the interest of ensuring his Pack's safety he'd decided to act as an agent for the Order, and now he'd somehow landed babysitting duty for the Muggleborn of the Golden Trio. He was definitely in over his head now.

Back in the village he didn't encounter Ellie, of which he was grateful. He didn't want to deal with a surely offended and distraught woman at the moment.

He ran into his Beta, Roth a few minutes later.

"You look awful, Fenrir," he observed with concern.

"It's been a trying month, Roth. But I'll manage."

They walked along the forest edge in silence for a while, past a group of hunters dragging in the day's kill, and past the cluster of women kneeling in the vegetable patches, gathering up fresh greens for their family dinners.

"How long until you return next time?" Roth asked.

Fenrir paused, his eyes scanning over the village. This was home for him, it was the only serenity he found amidst all the war and obligations he was involved in outside of his Pack. "I think I'll stay the night, actually," he stated, after pondering for a few thoughtful moments. He didn't want to see Granger and he was sure she'd be just fine on her own—she would be setting up the healing station and brewing potions no doubt. She would be far too busy to even remark on his absence. But he knew that that wasn't true. If anything, Granger had shown that she was a truly compassionate woman. He was sure that despite her anger towards him, she'd still be troubled about him missing, not to mention she'd want to discuss their interaction from earlier that morning.

As for the Order, well, they hadn't issued any formal assignments for him, and the Dark Lord's activities had been relatively quiet for the past few days. He hadn't been summoned, and until he was, he planned to stay far, far away.

Roth quirked a pleased grin. "All right, then. The Pack will be ecstatic. Maybe you could give some of the pups a lesson or two on following trails."

Fenrir grinned back, pleased and eager to teach the young pups. He'd been neglecting his people for far too long. They were his primary concern, and the rest of the Wizarding World could wait. "Sounds like a plan."

FH

Hermione couldn't remember the last time she'd been so busy. It was a relief, of course, to be so occupied by setting up the healing station that all her other worries and troubles fell to the backburner. Fenrir hadn't come back the night of their argument. She didn't care, really. He'd been an ass. He'd terrified her and she didn't trust him a single notch.

She'd been nervous that first night alone. Even though she wouldn't have seen Fenrir during the night, just the knowledge that he was sleeping in the next room and was there to guard the cottage helped her rest easy. She'd called for Remus via the Floo when he hadn't returned the next morning.

Remus had apologized for Fenrir's temperamental behaviour, claiming that he'd probably gone to see his Pack. Honestly, she had almost forgotten he was an Alpha. And despite wanting to find fault in the fact that he'd ditched her and had been so far a pretty poor guardian, she couldn't really blame him for wanting to reconnect with his Pack and ensure their safety as well. Besides, Fenrir's absence had had its benefits. When Fenrir had showed no signs of returning to the cottage, Remus had summoned four Order members to come and help her. Of course, Remus had made her promise not to divulge the fact that Fenrir was living at the cottage as well. No one was to know about his involvement with the Order. It would be a secret best kept between her, Remus and Shacklebolt.

So, that was how she found herself on the fifth day of Fenrir's absence. Ginny and Luna were aligning the cots in the converted treatment room and making the beds with new, crisp, white linens. Neville, being the expert herbology connaisseur that he was, had gone to retrieve some ingredients and herbs she needed for her potion brewing. Hermione, in the meantime, sat at her cauldron working on a burn-healing potion. She could hear Ginny and Luna giggling from across the hall as they went about their business.

"I made some tea."

Hermione glanced up from her brewing potion and smiled warmly at Oliver Wood. She was particularly happy to have Oliver around. His presence calmed her nerves and anxieties. He was all confidence and comfort in one. And he always smelled of honey. She rather liked the smell. It was clean and sweet, and lingered on her tongue. She couldn't help but compare him to Fenrir. Fenrir had a particular fragrance as well—a mixture of musk, leather and earth. It was obviously a more manly smell that suited his roguish persona. They were completely different. Fenrir had a cruel and harsh exterior and a callous interior, while Oliver had a softness to him and possessed a kind heart. She only wished he could have been the one to stay at the cottage with her, not Fenrir.

"You're my saviour," she replied happily, gratefully taking the teacup from him. "Thanks for being here. With me, that is. You've been simply amazing."

Oliver nodded, sitting beside her on the extra stool. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," he said softly, catching her eye. There was a sincerity to his eyes that left her feeling warm inside and nervous.

Hermione averted her eyes as her cheeks flushed crimson. For the past four days, ever since Fenrir had abandoned her in the cottage—to presumably see to his Pack—Oliver, Ginny, Neville and Luna had come to help her around the cottage in preparation for receiving patients. She was so grateful to all of them. And while they'd all been so helpful and understanding, none moved her as much as Oliver had. Ginny was one of her closest friends, but she carried a sadness with her that always left Hermione grieving for the loss of Harry. Sometimes it was difficult to be around Ginny, but she loved her all the same. As for Neville and Luna, well, they were newlyweds after all. The PDA often proved a bit too much to bear, as they were often openly intimate. Sometimes Hermione just needed to get away from them. And when she found herself needing to escape Ginny's sadness and Neville and Luna's lovesick puppy dog eyes, she went to Oliver.

The beauty of what she and Oliver shared was that whenever she felt lonely or distressed or overwhelmed, she wouldn't have to speak a word. He understood her pain and would pull her tenderly into his arms and embrace her, rocking her back and forth, brushing his knuckles lightly across her tear-stained cheek. He was delicate with her, treating her like a fragile flower. He made her feel safe and secure. Sometimes she just wanted someone to care for her, to abandon her brave front and let someone protect her.

It was near dinnertime on Hermione's seventh day alone in the cottage when they announced that they had to go. Hermione's face fell immediately. It had become routine by now, but she still couldn't conceal the fact that she was disappointed. Now that all the preparations had been made and her potions finished, there wouldn`t be much need for their assistance. She desperately hoped that Remus would still permit them to visit her once in a while.

Oliver cleared his throat suddenly. "You guys go on ahead. I think I'll stay the night with Hermione. Make sure she's okay."

Hermione felt her heart speed up excitedly. "You'd really do that?"

Oliver shrugged. "Yeah. One night won't hurt anyone."

Neville looked a bit sceptical, but Ginny and Luna dragged him along towards the floo, identical knowing smiles on their faces.

"Have a good night, Hermione," Ginny said with a suggestive wink.

Hermione's cheeks turned red. "Thanks Ginny," she muttered.

When the three friends had disappeared into the floo, Hermione turned to face Oliver, unsure of what to do. "There's leftover grilled chicken from my dinner yesterday. Is that all right?" she asked timidly.

"Sounds great," he replied.

Hermione couldn't help but beam as he set about arranging utensils, plates and napkins on the kitchen table. Fenrir would never help her in the kitchen. She bitterly recalled his words from their first morning together at the cottage: _I don't do domestic._ She shook her head. _Hot-headed, chauvinistic jerk_.

When they had eaten their fill of dinner and cleaned up their plates, Hermione pleaded guilty of fatigue. "It's been a long week. I wish I was a better sport, we could watch movies or something. But I'm just so exhausted."

Oliver waved his hand dismissively. "Get some rest, Hermione. After this weekend you'll be a busy little healer. Until then, you should get as much sleep under your belt as possible; prepare yourself for all those sleepless nights," he teased.

Hermione laughed and rolled her eyes. "Gee, thanks for the encouraging words, Wood."

Oliver laughed as well as he made his way to the couch and grabbed a blanket. Hermione frowned. She couldn't very well let Oliver use Fenrir's bed. He'd know someone else was living with her, and he couldn't be allowed to know it was Fenrir bloody Greyback. But she also didn't want him to stay on the uncomfortable couch all night.

Her logical mind was telling her to leave him on the couch, but her ever-giving heart was telling her to offer him her bed. She knew that she shouldn't, that it wasn't proper. However, she trusted that Oliver wasn't the kind of man to take advantage of her.

"Oliver."

Her heart won out.

"Yeah?"

"Don't sleep on the couch. You can share my bed." She offered. His eyes narrowed intently on her and she felt her cheeks flood with warmth. "I mean—it's a Queen. So there's plenty of space. The couch is so uncomfortable."

Oliver seemed to consider her offer for a moment before he agreed. He followed her up the stairs. She could feel the heat of his body right behind her back. She clasped her hands together, trying to ignore the voice in her head that was goading her to reach out and touch him. _Stop it_, she chided herself as she pulled open the door to her bedroom.

"Quaint," Oliver said.

"Um, I'll just go change," Hermione said awkwardly. "Be right back."

Oliver only nodded as she collected a tank top and a pair of pj shorts and scurried into the bathroom across the hall. When she returned a few minutes later, Oliver was looking through her collection of books. He was shirtless but still had on his trousers for decency's sake. Hermione took a few seconds to secretly appraise his lean, but muscled figure. His torso was defined and his arms were strong. He looked just as she imagined a Quidditch player to look like. "If I had to guess your favourite from the shamefully tattered condition of these poor victimized novels, I'd say," he pulled out a particularly aged book with a half unbound front cover. "_Pride and Prejudice_."

Hermione laughed. "An honourable attempt to be sure, Mr. Wood. But not quite so."

He feigned a scandalized face.

Hermione threw back the cover of her bed and crawled onto the mattress. She reached beneath her pillow and withdrew a small novel in surprisingly good condition. Oliver raised a quizzical brow before settling himself on the bed beside her. He took the book when she offered it to him.

"_Persuasion_," he read. He shot her a cheeky grin. "At least I got the author right."

Hermione smiled warmly at him in reply. "Goodnight, Oliver."

Oliver lay on his side, facing her, watching as she pulled the sheets up over her body. "Goodnight, Hermione." She closed her eyes as he reached over to brush a strand of hair from her face. "I'll always be here for you," he said softly.

Those sincere words were enough to cause tears to spring to her eyes. She tried to wipe them away, but Oliver noticed. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and drew her across the bed to him. She gratefully leaned her head on his strong chest, nestling in closer to him. He absently drew circles over the exposed skin of her shoulder. She eventually fell asleep to the sound of his even heartbeats as the smell of his honey-scented soap overcame her senses and cast her off into the sweetest of slumbers.

**Well, there you have it! I hope you all liked it. You can expect chapter six to be a speedier update. Let me know what you think!**

**Ink xo**


	6. By The Time You Come Around

**Hey ho! I'm back after a month long hiatus. Sorry about that! Please read and enjoy! Thanks again for everyone who has read or reviewed my fic. Love you guys :)**

6

Hermione woke up in Oliver's arms the next morning. The warmth of his body pressed to hers, his arm draped across her stomach, was certainly not an unwelcomed novelty. The sensation was foreign, perhaps, but pleasantly reassuring nonetheless. She smiled sheepishly as she rolled out of his grasp. He looked so angelic lying on her bed. His sandy hair was tousled from sleep, the sunlight creating a halo-like effect around him. He was still asleep, and soundly at that, judging by the slight part of his lips and his even breathing.

She watched him a moment before changing into shorts and a tank top and heading downstairs to prepare breakfast for them. She knew instantly that Fenrir hadn't returned. He would have heard her and come to check up on her. Not that she cared. If Fenrir never returned to the cottage, it would be too soon for her. Besides, with his hostile presence gone, she'd finally be able to spend time with her friends. She missed Ginny, Neville and Luna already.

She smiled happily as she fried bacon on the stove top, humming absently. Oliver came down a few minutes later. He looked groggy and his clothes were rumpled. It was an endearing look to say the least, one that caused her smile to widen. This was the closest to normalcy she'd been in several weeks.

"Smells amazing, Hermione," he said, coming up behind her.

She shivered involuntarily as he ran one warm finger down the length of her arm. Taking a calming breath, she piled the bacon onto a plate and switched off the stove before turning to face him. He was two inches away from her, and his forest green eyes held a recognizable longing in them. At first their intensity shocked her, but she quickly realized that the past week had seen their friendship grow into something more intimate than simply friends. They had become confidantes, in a way. They had comforted each other with soft words and secure embraces whenever the need had arisen.

Her heart rate sped up drastically, her logic seeming to freeze. She liked Oliver, to be sure. But she wasn't so sure she was ready to embark on something more intimate with him than what they already had. But war did strange things to people, and despite her desire to maintain her relationship with Oliver as one purely of friends, she found herself unconsciously responding to him.

He gently stroked her cheeks with his knuckles. "Hermione," he said.

"Mmhm."

His eyes fell to her lips before flickering back up to meet her eyes. He was asking for her permission. Her heart tightened nervously in her chest, her breath hitched at the back of her throat. She was panicking on the inside, trying to fight with the part of her mind that desperately sought his comforting embrace. He smirked as if sensing her indecision, and played it off. Gently, he placed his lips against hers. They were moist and sweet, she remarked, as his lips caressed hers softly, moving with careful precision. Hermione was warmed by the tender sensation that was being imparted upon her by his ministrations.

He abruptly opened his lips, his tongue roughly prodding her lips for entrance. Hermione felt her back stiffen as the kiss quickly transgressed from chaste to demanding. That was unexpected and she wasn't quite ready for it. Oliver didn't seem to notice her hesitance to respond to him as he pushed her against the counter. She gasped as he forced her back against its sharp edge. His tongue slid wantonly into her mouth. The intrusion of his hot, wet tongue was an unfamiliar one, one that she couldn't quite decide was either agreeable or unpleasant. She'd never experienced a kiss like this. She'd only ever shared chaste kisses with men, well, one man, actually. Kissing Viktor Krum was the extent of her expertise in the kissing area. This was entirely new—growing up during a war had left her with little time to concern herself with romantic relationships.

Hermione thought of Ron then. She had always loved him, but as a brother. She knew he had wanted more from her, but she'd kept her heart guarded, refusing to open up to anyone when war was threatening to destroy everything and everyone she held dear to her.

Honestly, she didn't know what it was that she and Oliver had, but at the moment she didn't want to analyze it. She was comforted by his embrace and the caressing motion of his lips. She just wanted to be and not think. She was aware of how society romanticized relationships and first kisses, how there was supposed to be some distinguishable spark, like an ignited fire or shock of electricity. She hadn't felt a particular spark with Oliver, which she supposed was fine since she didn't necessarily want to become serious with Oliver.

Oliver's lips abruptly left hers, and he nipped sharply at her jaw, before trailing down her neck to suck on her collarbone. She sighed softly and he grabbed one of her legs, hooking it around his hip and bringing their bodies even closer together, if possible.

She was so enraptured by his affectionate embrace, having been deprived of any kind of affection for several long months, that she failed to hear the front door opening, or the heavy footfalls of a remarkably large man as he paused at the threshold, detecting the muted sounds of intimacy coming from the kitchen, before stomping, wand drawn into the kitchen itself.

"What the hell is this?" Fenrir snarled furiously.

Hermione gasped, her eyes flying open, as she spotted Fenrir standing in the doorframe and looking thoroughly incensed. She could detect his rage, and she felt her cheeks flush from a combination of mortification and indignation.

"Fenrir," she breathed, stepping away from Oliver, placing a finger to her swollen lips.

She didn't have time to apologize or react because beside her Oliver had recovered from his shock, and had whipped out his wand. He pushed Hermione forcefully behind his body. "Get back, Hermione."

Fenrir growled at him, taking a menacing step into the kitchen. "Who the hell do you think you are?" His blue eyes sized up Oliver before turning angrily to Hermione. "And what the bloody hell do you think you were doing, Granger?" he snarled venomously.

"Stupefy!" Oliver shouted.

Fenrir quickly deflected the spell, his expression turning even graver as his fury mounted dangerously higher.

Hermione flung herself in front of Oliver, catching his wrist in her hand. "Don't, Oliver. It's not what you think."

Oliver looked at her with blatant confusion on his face. "Are you mad, Hermione? It's Fenrir bleeding Greyback." He tried to push her away, but she didn't relent.

"He's not a threat to us," Hermione glanced uneasily behind her at Fenrir who was standing rigidly a few feet away, seething, his handsomely rugged face twisted into an irate scowl.

"You're crazy," he bit out. When she still wouldn't let go of his arm, he yanked her hand away and shoved her to the side. She stumbled into the counter, painfully striking her hip against the tiled surface.

Fenrir's eyes darkened when she gasped in pain. His blazing eyes fell on Oliver. "Watch it, you ignorant ponce," he growled warningly, advancing again. "She's not a rag doll to toss around," he hissed protectively. Oliver flushed bright red and made to attack him, but Fenrir easily disarmed him, catching his wand in his hand. "I'd listen to your girlfriend if I were you," he reproached antagonistically.

Oliver's eyes turned to Hermione. "What the hell is this? Is this a joke?" he demanded.

Hermione felt tears burn her eyes. "Fenrir is a secret agent for the Order. No one was supposed to know…" she trailed off, looking contritely at Fenrir. "He won't hurt me. He's here to protect me."

Oliver looked bewildered. "Protect you?" He laughed bitterly at that, and Hermione felt her heart shatter. "What kind of negligent oaf of a protector would abandon you for an entire week?" he said nastily. "How responsible of him," Oliver sneered.

Fenrir stepped towards Oliver, his eyes set to murder. "I'm warning you," he ground out, pressing his wand to the column of Oliver's throat. "I wouldn't be such an impertinent ass if I were you. Remember who's got your wand," he threatened.

"Enough!" Hermione cried desperately. She forced herself between the two men who were glaring heatedly into each other's eyes, their pupils glittering with male pride. Hermione placed her hands on Fenrir's broad chest and pushed him back a step. His muscles rippled beneath her touch. His blue eyes flickered to her chocolate brown ones. The muscle in his neck was pulsing furiously, but he relented, lowering his wand. Hermione nodded at him. "Let me handle this." He raised his brows dubiously but said nothing. She could detect accusing betrayal behind those translucent blue eyes and she immediately felt guilty for her impulsive behaviour this morning.

Hermione turned to Oliver next. He looked disbelieving. "I don't understand."

"I know. I know," she said, distressed by the situation. "This must seem completely insane to you, but Fenrir isn't going to hurt me. Look, Oliver," she said more softly, "I think it's best if you leave."

He looked at her, shocked. "And desert you with that monster? I don't think so. You're coming with me." He took her wrist, and made to pull her towards the floo.

"That won't be necessary," Fenrir said deeply, failing at masking his outrage. "She stays with me." He grabbed her other wrist and pulled her towards him. Oliver held tight and Hermione winced at the burn that shot through the length of both her arms. Fenrir seemed to notice her pained expression and gingerly released her arm.

Oliver shook his head. "I think Hermione can make up her own mind, Greyback," he sneered.

He looked to Hermione, but she only lowered her gaze. She bit her lip. "I can't, Oliver. I can't leave the cottage."

Oliver's eyes widened. "That's ridiculous!" he interrupted.

"No. Listen to me. Go back to headquarters. Please don't tell anyone about Fenrir." She glanced sideways at the werewolf, but he refused to meet her pleading gaze. His eyes were burning with hatred as they glared straight at Oliver Wood's temple. "Go to Remus. Tell him what happened. He'll explain everything to you. You deserve as much."

Shaking his head in baffled incredulity, he warily released her wrist. "I can't even—I don't know what to say," he mumbled, disconcerted.

"Please don't be angry, Oliver. You've been so amazing this week. And last night," she paused as her voice caught. She could still feel the warmth of his body against hers, the calming rhythm of his heartbeat that had lulled her soundly into sleep for the first time in days. "Last night meant a lot to me. You made me feel safe for the first time in a long time, Oliver. Don't hate me for keeping this from you," she pleaded. "I'm sorry if you feel betrayed by me, but you have to understand—Fenrir's secret is not mine to share. I was bound by oath to protect his identity."

Oliver blinked several times at her. Then his eyes looked to Fenrir who stood with his feet planted apart and his arms crossed over his chest, a snide smirk of triumph on his face. Oliver didn't speak as he walked to the floo. He didn't turn back before he threw a handful of green powder into the fireplace and disappeared in an angry puff of smoke.

Deafening silence followed his departure and Hermione tiredly rubbed her eyes. Not only was Oliver upset with her, but she doubted he'd come back to see her ever again, especially now that he knew about Fenrir. _Fenrir_. He had poor timing, that was a given.

"Would you care to explain to me what the hell happened while I was away?" Fenrir ground out.

Hermione took a calming breath before reeling on the werewolf. "Remus allowed some friends to come and see me. That's it."

Fenrir scowled at her. "No one is allowed in this house. You know that, Mudblood."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Firstly, I'm sick of you calling me a Mudblood. For someone whose bound themselves to the Order and is _supposed _to be protecting me, you sure harbour a lot of resentment for Muggleborns," she snapped. Before he could speak she continued, passionate as ever. "And for your information, Fenrir," she ground out his name as though it were a foul word, "if you hadn't upped and left _seven days ago_, then no one would have come to the cottage in the first place."

"Oh, I see. So now it's somehow my fault that you and your sorry excuse for a boyfriend were exchanging saliva in the kitchen?" he chuckled cruelly. "Somehow, I doubt that. You're supposed to be the bloody responsible one."

Hermione clenched her hands into fists, unable to suppress her fury any longer. "Don't lecture me about responsibility! You're a hypocrite. You just abandoned me without telling me or Remus where you were going or when you'd be back. I was alone and," she paused, quickly averting her gaze from his icy blue eyes, "and frightened."

Fenrir was silent for a moment. "I was with my Pack."

Hermione still refused to look at him, hating to admit her weaknesses in front of him. Just because she'd fought in wars, didn't mean she was immune to fear. "How was I supposed to know? You never tell me anything." She looked to her feet. "You weren't here, Fenrir. I just needed comfort," she sighed.

Fenrir grunted. "Well, I'm sure your boyfriend provided sufficient comfort," he retorted sarcastically.

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Oh, really," Fenrir mused, taking a step towards her. Hermione stumbled back into the counter and he paused a foot away from her. "That's not what your lip-locking looked like to me."

Hermione fumed. She hated how cruel he could be, how unfeeling.

"What were you up to last night anyway? Care to elaborate?" he asked tauntingly.

Hermione felt her cheeks flush indignantly. "That's none of your business."

Fenrir shook his head, planting his hands on the counter on either side of Hermione's body, effectively boxing her in. "Like hell it isn't. This is my cottage. I have a right to know what goes on here behind my back."

Hermione relented. She didn't want any further animosity growing between them. She'd set it straight with him now and hope for the best. "I was distressed and alone and he was there to comfort me. Satisfied?"

Fenrir glowered at her, an unforgiving grimace on his face. "Oh. I see. So while the dog's at bay, you fuck away."

Hermione's chest swelled with rage. "You arrogant, self-righteous jerk!" she cried. The fury coursing through her blood ran thick and she could contain it no longer. She began to lash out at him, pounding her small fists tirelessly against his chest. She wanted to hurt him. Badly. He was so damn smug all the time. Much to her chagrin, Fenrir didn't seem winded in the least. He waited several seconds before grabbing her wrists and shaking her roughly. Tears stung her eyes.

"No, I'm realistic. You should never have let him stay the night. If you had any thought to keep my identity secret you wouldn't have invited him in and effectually jeopardized my cover," Fenrir grumbled crossly, releasing her wrists.

They were equally matched in this scenario, and they each had ample ammunition to throw at the other. But Hermione, for once, was not going to be the first to compromise or apologize. He could suck up his ego for once and be the one to apologize first.

"I can do whatever I like. I don't need your permission, Fenrir."

"From now on you do. No one comes in or out of this cottage without my knowledge. Do you understand?" he demanded.

Hermione met his eyes fiercely. "Why do you even care? If this week is any indication of your dedication to the Order or your obligation to me, then you can't possibly be all that concerned for my safety."

"I told you to stay inside and out of the woods," he reminded her gruffly.

"How thoughtful," Hermione said bitingly.

"Don't give me cheek, Granger. I'm not in the mood," he scowled.

She shook her head and laughed coldly. "You're never in the mood. You've given me more strife than anything else since you brought me here. Just stay the hell away from me."

"Don't worry," he growled, lowering his gaze until they were eye-level. "Unlike your eager boyfriend, I have no intention of shoving my tongue down your throat or my cock up your shrivelled little vagina."

"You're obscene!" she shrieked with disgust.

Not wanting to spend another moment in his presence, she stormed out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She loudly slammed her bedroom door shut. Leaning against the door for a few minutes, she attempted, vainly, to steady her uneven breaths. Her pale face trailed with hot tears, but she refused to think on what had just come to pass. She was just too tired. She eagerly collapsed onto her bed and buried her face into her pillow, wishing she could drown out the world and all its problems—all of her problems.

OOO

Fenrir paced back and forth through the living room of the cottage. Things had certainly not gone as he'd anticipated. For one, he'd anticipated having the Muggleborn runt bombard him with an endless impertinent tirade of questions. He hadn't anticipated finding her exchanging saliva with some hormonal halfwit from the Order. He was a temperamental man, he wouldn't deny that. And seeing her with that Quidditch player, Wood, had felt like a betrayal of sorts. She had allowed him into their private cottage, and she had exposed his identity.

Well, quite frankly, it was enough to irk his temper. He wouldn't deny that he'd been cruel to her, and as much as it left him grumbling with wounded ego, it was wrong of him to leave her to fend for herself these past seven days. He was partially at fault, and it was that bitter thought that left him with an unpleasant sense of self-loathing. He had let his anger with her get the upper-hand and he'd run away from their issues like some coward. He had failed at his mission, and it was that failure to protect Granger and to guard the safe-house that left him now feeling overwhelmingly frustrated. But he was still outraged with the Mudblood. There was no way around it. She had been foolish to let that man stay the night.

He shuddered at the thought of what sort of intimacies must have gone on while he'd been gone. He couldn't help being angered by the Mudblood's actions. This was his home and he was an Alpha. Nothing ever went on behind his back without him knowing and approving it first. That was the way of the Pack, and Granger was indirectly an extension of his Pack, since he had been ordered to protect her.

Not twenty minutes after their dispute, the floo had flared up and out had walked an extremely livid Remus Lupin. He'd come to do some much needed damage control. As it were, Oliver had been ready to rally the troops upon arriving at headquarters and bring Fenrir to his knees. Fortunately, Remus had smoothed things over, and for the time being Wood had been coerced into keeping silent about the revelation of Fenrir's alliance. Apparently when given the option between wiping his memory clean or keeping his trap shut, he had chosen the latter.

Fenrir grumbled angrily. He didn't like the idea of having another Order member know about his involvement, especially one as resentful as that Quidditch player. He didn't trust that Wood would keep his mouth shut, but he trusted Remus and that would have to be enough.

"You could have told her you'd be with the Pack," Remus had chastised.

Fenrir had shaken his head. "I wasn't thinking. And besides, I was with _him_, and she can't know about it. Not yet, at least," he'd tried to explain.

Remus had finally seemed to understand the conflict behind Fenrir's decision to keep Hermione in the dark. But that didn't mean he had excused him for his impulsive behaviour.

"Make amends with her." Those had been the parting words of Remus, who, after spending the better part of three hours scolding him for his irresponsible and inconsiderate behaviour this past week, had left with his head held high with self-righteousness. Once the wolf had departed, Fenrir cursed him and all his damned integrity. Lupin was so bloody honourable all the time that it effectively put all other men to shame.

The clock above the mantle now read seven o'clock. It was past dinner time. The runt hadn't shown her face for the entire day. His stomach growled hungrily. He'd eaten an entire loaf of bread for lunch. Being by no means an accomplished cook, he was starving. She was probably starving as well, and unless he coaxed her out of her room they'd both likely continue to go hungry.

Resolved to go and see her, Fenrir trudged reluctantly up the stairs. He wouldn't be easily forgiven, but he'd attempt to be civil. She wouldn't get an outright apology, but she'd get the next best thing, which was admitting he was wrong.

To make a show of his civility, he rapped his knuckles sharply on the door. "Granger?"

There was no answer, but he could hear her shuffling about the room. He knocked again.

"Granger, I can hear you shuffling about, you know," he growled, trying to hide his annoyance.

The shuffling abruptly ceased and a moment of complete silence followed.

"What do you want?" she demanded coldly.

Fenrir rolled his eyes. "Let me in, would you? I don't much like having to talk through doors."

He listened as she stepped quietly across the room and slowly opened the door a foot. She poked her head through the space, a stern and unimpressed expression on her face. "Better?" she snapped.

Fenrir cleared his throat as he looked down at the small woman before him. For such a little thing, she could really hold her own against him. It was an admirable quality, he thought, perhaps one of her only redeeming ones. "I just came to say that it was wrong of me to leave you here, on your own, without any idea of where I had gone or when I'd be back. It was not my intention to leave you here afraid and alone."

Hermione's eyes narrowed and she pulled the door open wider so that he could now see into her room. Her bed was made, but the sheets were rumpled. There was a book lying face down on her quilt—_Persuasion_—he read. Typical for her to run away and read a book whilst she sulked, he thought.

"Is that an apology?" she asked sarcastically.

"No. But it's all you're going to get. So either get over your wounded ego, or continue to be a coward, hiding from your problems." With that he turned on the spot and marched into his room.

She followed him in, an angry energy ensuing in her wake. He tried to ignore her as he opened his blinds, letting in some of the natural evening light.

"You know, Greyback, that's really unfair of you to say," she said angrily. "I don't have an ego, but I do have feelings. And you said some terribly offensive things to me this morning."

Fenrir ground his teeth when she stepped in front of him. He growled at her.

She rolled her eyes. "Don't you growl at me," she chastised.

Fenrir's eyes narrowed, his eyebrows rising at her bossy tone, but he obediently fell silent. It took all of his discipline to refrain from sinking his teeth into the supple flesh of her neck, to dominate her, and teach her to respect him.

"This arrangement isn't working, Fenrir," she continued, unfazed. "We need to set some rules."

"What did you have in mind?" he asked restlessly.

Hermione raised a surprised eyebrow. She was shocked that he was being so accommodating. Deciding to take advantage of her luck, she continued on.

"Well, firstly, I want to know where you go and what you do there," she said bravely. "I have a right to know."

Fenrir shook his head. "No." He backtracked out of his room. She followed him again, down the stairs and into the living room. Before she could protest further, he rounded on her. She crashed inelegantly against his broad chest. He caught her by the arms and roughly shoved her onto the couch. She flushed brightly with indignation. Fenrir went to the mantle, brandishing the fire poker and prodding at the grey ash.

"What-."

"Don't," Fenrir snapped, tossing the poker aside to glare at the young woman. "I'll agree to tell you where I'm going. But I will not reveal what goes on while I'm there. That's confidential and sharing my information with you is not a part of this job contract. Besides, the less you know the slimmer the chances are of you doing something superbly stupid."

Hermione glared at him, but she didn't protest. "Fine. But can we at least agree that you'll inform me ahead of time how long you'll be gone for?"

"So long as we can agree that no one comes in or out of this house without my permission," he compromised.

She seemed to bristle with resilience but simply nodded. "Agreed."

"Good," he grunted, running a hand along the stubble of his jaw. "Now, how about some dinner? I'm starving."

When he turned to look at the young woman she was glowering at him. "Fine. I suppose I'll do the cooking, you useless lump of dog breath," she muttered.

Fenrir grinned, amused, as she spun around and stormed off into the kitchen. She hadn't sounded angry when she'd insulted him, in fact, she'd sounded relieved for some reason. Maybe they could make this arrangement work out after all. All it would take was some honesty and civility. He could do that…or he'd try to at least.

OOO

The remainder of the evening passed by without a hitch. Following dinner, Hermione returned to her bedroom, and Fenrir, having nothing particularly thrilling to occupy himself with, also retreated to his room. He lay on his bed for several hours, listening to the sound of Granger's even breathing coming from next door. He closed his eyes and counted the seconds between each of her breaths. It was well into the night when all grew quiet. The sound of turning pages ceased and he knew that she had settled herself to sleep.

Mumbling incoherently to himself, Fenrir too settled down to sleep. He stripped off his shirt and pulled on a pair of lounge pants. That night proved to be the most restful since he'd left the cottage a week ago.

He rose at five o'clock the next morning. He was somewhat surprised to hear the shower going from across the hall. Dressing quickly he trudged downstairs and into the sunshine yellow kitchen. The past day had been exhausting. He was still resentful of the young witch's behaviour while he'd been away, but he knew he would have to forgive, just as she would have to forgive his negligence.

He eyed the stove sceptically. Surely preparing breakfast for her would help him come across as more civil. From what he knew of cooking, which was very little, it was a simple enough feat—if you knew what the hell you were doing—which he didn't.

Fenrir narrowed his eyes at the stove top once more. He had seen Granger cook bacon and eggs in a pan over the stove. He cautiously turned one of the knobs along the right side of the stove, igniting the bottom right-hand burner. He straightened his posture, proud of his minor accomplishment. He wasn't so dependent on magic, nor was he so self-righteous to think mundane tasks like cooking were below him. He could manage just fine without his wand, he thought smugly. Now he just had to find a frying pan.

Several minutes later, Fenrir had two frying pans going at once. One contained several slices of bacon and the other held two fried eggs. Who said he couldn't be a gentleman? He scoffed. Gentleman, his ass. He moved about the kitchen, setting two seats. He wasn't nearly as graceful as Granger was when she navigated through the kitchen. He kept banging his hip into the chairs and the countertop.

He inwardly cringed as he recalled yesterday's events, reminding himself of the sight of the pretty boy Quidditch player sticking his tongue down Granger's throat. Anger boiled in his chest at the thought. He didn't want to analyze why it had bothered him to the extent that it had. He attributed it to his dominant nature, being Alpha he couldn't help but be protective over his Pack, and in the Mudblood's case, over the subject he'd been assigned to protect.

Fenrir was so absorbed in his task that he didn't even detect the sound of Hermione's approaching footsteps. In fact, he smelled her before he actually saw her in the flesh. The tantalizing scent of vanilla preceded her, filling his nose with its sweetness. His eyes darkened as he turned to face the doorway. No one had ever successfully snuck up on him before. The fact that Hermione Granger had managed to do so was indeed disturbing. He convinced himself it was all this sudden domesticity that was affecting his perceptiveness.

She wore a pastel, floral frock that fell just above her knees. It was cinched at the waist, accentuating the soft, feminine curves of her torso. The skirt, flaring at the waist, fell gently down her legs, swishing delicately about her hips with each step she took. Her dark brown hair hung in damp curls about her clean, fresh face, and her freckled cheeks were pink from the shower steam. All in all, the sight of her left him with a peculiar ache in his chest, an ache that was most unwelcome.

"I thought you said that you didn't do domestic?" she teased, her brown eyes glistening.

Fenrir scowled, averting his gaze from her. "I don't. I was trying to be polite. Don't get used to it, sweetheart. This is a one-time deal."

Hermione's face fell. "I didn't mean to offend you. I think what you're doing is," she paused, as if deciding what word to use, "sweet."

Fenrir's shoulders stiffened under her perceptive gaze. _Sweet_. The vile, sensitive word made him cringe. Never before had someone associated him with the word _sweet_. He wasn't _sweet_. He wasn't _nice_. He was a bloody werewolf—a violent, aggressive, blood-lusting beast with a temper. He clenched his fists by his sides, as his now darkened blue eyes fell on the small woman, trapping her to the spot.

"Sweet?" he spat angrily.

Hermione licked her lips nervously.

"Don't disillusion yourself," he warned, his voice dangerously low. "A week ago I was on the verge of ripping out your heart. I'm not sweet. I'm temperamental and changeable. Just because I cook you a meal, doesn't mean I'm the man of the hour," he snarled.

Hermione only nodded.

He angrily slammed down two plates of eggs and bacon on the table and sat down.

"Sit," he ordered.

She didn't protest as she cautiously pulled out her chair and sat down, folding her legs beneath her. Fenrir ignored her as he shovelled the food into his mouth. He was angry. Again. She could be so damn foolish sometimes. The witch needed to learn to stop romanticizing life. The world was cruel, and only those who accepted the harsh reality that happiness is as fleeting as the passing minutes in a day, would survive. It was a wonder Granger had made it through, relatively unscathed, for as long as she had. For someone so astute, she was incredibly naïve.

After several minutes Fenrir glanced up. Hermione was pushing the untouched food around her plate. Her eyes were glazed over as she stared unseeingly into her plate. He knew she wasn't in the kitchen with him anymore. Her mind was some place far away, and by the hot tears threatening to spill over her long lashes, he knew it wasn't a happy place.

Fenrir roughly cleared his throat. "You don't like it?" he snapped, feigning annoyance.

Hermione blinked several times before breaking from her trance and quickly wiping her eyes. "I'm sorry?"

Fenrir stared levelly at her. "Breakfast. Not up to your elevated standards?"

Hermione shook her head profusely. "Oh, no," she said quickly, taking a bite of her egg. "It's delicious, Fenrir," she assured half-heartedly.

"Well, then eat up. You could benefit from a bit of fat on your bones. It'll make your cheeks less sallow," he said nastily.

She glared at him but didn't speak as she began to eat her breakfast. Fenrir, of course, didn't find her cheeks sallow in the least. Her cheeks, however pale they might be, were bright and shiny, highlighting her deep, chocolate coloured eyes. He quickly took one last bite of his food, effectively cleaning his plate.

He tossed the plate and utensils into the sink, wiping his hands on a nearby dishtowel. This time he heard her as she pushed back from her chair and joined him by the sink.

"I'll wash, since you cooked," she offered.

Fenrir shrugged and turned to face her. She was extremely close to him, so much so that he was overwhelmed by the fragrant smell of the vanilla body-wash that she always showered with. His fingers were itching to touch a strand of her soft, curling hair. Thankfully, before his body could act on the foreign and perturbing longing, his bicep seared with pain, as though a fiery whip had been belted across his flesh.

"Agh!" he growled, grabbing his arm. The white hot pain flashed brightly across his vision and, light-headed, he stumbled back against the countertop.

"Fenrir?"

He closes his eyes, willing the pain to vanish.

"Fenrir!"

He could feel Granger shaking him, but he ignored her frantic cries and prodding hands. Voldemort's summoning was rarely this painful, but he knew why this particularly call had been so potent. As it were, he'd been expecting to be beckoned, and he'd already informed Remus of Voldemort's plans. When the pain subsided, he reopened his eyes.

"What happened?" she asked breathily, her eyes roving across him as if searching for injuries.

Fenrir's dark gaze met her hers. "I've been summoned."

OOO

Hermione didn't know how to respond to his statement. His reaction had been so violent that she would have thought one of his lungs had burst. She stared back into his dark eyes before lowering her gaze to where he clutched his bicep. She tentatively pulled his hand away, his hand rough against hers, and, because her curiosity could not be denied, gently rolled up his black shirt sleeve.

What she saw evoked a quiet gasp from her lips. She watched, partially horrified and partially mesmerized as the snake and skull tattoo rose from his skin and moved. The long serpent curled through the skull, its head turning to and fro, its satanic forked tongue darting in and out, testing his flesh.

She lifted a trembling finger towards the branded tattoo, drawn to it in some strange, seductive way. Before she could feel his abrasive skin, Fenrir grabbed her wrist, stopping her and jarring her from her reverie.

His eyes were nearly black with suppressed resentment. "That's enough," he ground out.

Hermione bit her lip, ashamed by her behaviour. "I'm sorry." She lowered her head and internally chastised herself. How could she forget about the boundaries between her and Fenrir? They weren't friends. They were hardly even polite acquaintances. His dark mark was personal to him, too personal for him to ever consider enlightening her about.

He gingerly released her wrist and made to throw his overcoat on.

"Wait! Where are you going?" she asked.

Fenrir paused at the front door to examine her. "To the Dark Lord."

"When will you be back?" She wanted so badly to ask what he had been called for, but she knew they had agreed that she wouldn't.

"I don't know," he replied. "A few hours, days, maybe," he offered. His voice had softened, as though with fatigue. "Stay inside." He threw open the door and Hermione watched, arms wrapped about her waist as he arrived halfway down the gravel path and abruptly paused. He turned back to face her, his expression revealing nothing to her of what he was thinking or feeling.

"You may want to start turning down some sheets. Expect several visitors," Fenrir said sharply. He held her gaze a moment longer, conveying his meaning to her, before turning back. Hermione watched, mind racing, as he disappeared into the thicket of trees surrounding their cottage.

_Expect several visitors_. So he did know why he'd been summoned. Hermione smiled slightly, as she realized that Fenrir had broken one of his rules. He had told that her he wouldn't divulge what his business was, but apparently he had caved.

Without wasting a single moment, Hermione rushed into the cottage and up the stairs to the second floor where she began to prepare the infirmary. Her heart was pounding loudly in her chest. Fear wrapped its cold fingers around her heart, squeezing painfully tight. She could only pray that her friends would be all right, that hopefully, whatever battle and casualties Fenrir had hinted at wouldn't be too severe.

With those thoughts in mind, she headed off to arrange her medications and healing lotions. She was determined to play her part in this war, be it in battle or in a healing centre. She'd rise above expectations. No one was going to die on her watch.

**Hope you all enjoyed it! And I do want to apologize for it taking so long. I know I abandoned my readers for over a month and I'm so sorry! I went to the beach for a week (it was my first vacation in two years), and I've been working on a novel, so…Forgive me? **

**I always love me a review.**

**Ta,**

**Ink x0**


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